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myso-maggie · 11 months ago

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In Space there are no Smells

(Note from Author: Thank you for clicking! Its been about a year since I written, so I'm VERY RUSTY. SO enjoy this really weird short story. With sci-fi horror themes blended with corruption, mysophilia, stink, and filth.)

[Planetary orbit station Azazel]

[02:35:45 Earth Time]

[Goal: Find, Capture, Analyze, and Dispose of foreign objects orbiting or entering Earth’s Orbit.]

[Azazel is a part of a triangulation system with two sister stations Azza and Uzza, this system is called “Fallen Angels”.]

[Lead Orbit Extraction Tech Entry # 1]

<Name: Sonya Stellar>

<Excuse me, had to stop suddenly we had a reading in our radius. Why am I apologizing? These are to me after all. Company-mandated and shit. Supposedly for our “Mental well-being… bullshit. I'm keeping my thoughts on a log for me and my eyes only. Good to keep myself straight and narrow for the next mission. Anyways, Drew has volunteered himself to be the one to plot the course to intersect the object. Asshat

[S.O.S transmission from *****]

<THIS IS A PRIVATE CAPSULE FOR ****** AND *****

ATTENTION THIS IS A PRIVATE SCIENTIFIC CONTAINMENT

DO NOT *****

DO NOT INTERACT

DO NOT ****

PROPERTY OF ______________>

[end of transmission]

[Lead Orbit Extraction Tech Entry #2]

<Name: Sonya Stellar>

[It's impossible for the rest of the crew to hear my heart rate, but they all looked at me as if they could. I waited on the sidelines of the station- strapped up, ready to go out and yank Drew back to Azazel. We could hear advice and mutter on the hot radios of Uzza and Azza. I can’t stand the asshole but fuck me was it tense. Especially after the Company played the audio of the distress beacon. Evidently, it's privately owned or some shit. All they informed us was that it was a RED ALERT that we got it. This wasn’t just some long-forgotten satellite or some junk. This was something serious. This was something that had everyone tense and frightened. I never saw Drew look as worried as he did when we went for the first spacewalk. A wave of ease washed over me when we got the radio from Drew that he had in fact contacted the capsule. He sat as a speck in the infinite vastness connected like a kite coming for a landing. Our work had only begun, we now had to get Drew back in along with the Capsule put into the loading bay so we could bring it into our analysis department. Drew is now asleep claiming the stress was just too much. I never knew him to get so disturbed. I'm just happy it's now inside. I'll link to my analysis of the capsule below

[Azazel Analysis LOG]

[Sonya Stellar Analysis of Space Debris Capsule]

< Good evening, this is Dr. Stellar. I’m starting this LOG here at 22:00:00 Earth time. I will start with a visual analysis of the capsule. The unit appears to be akin to a satellite, made of standard Titanium alloys. There is a single round viewing window at the top of what appears to be an entry hatch, but the viewing window is opaque with the inner substance looking like algae. The capsule has markings and numbers with unknown reasons lining what looks like an input and output connection. On the front of the broken hatch is an emblem/logo of butterfly wings. I am now to begin cutting the hatches of the hatch. Afterward, I will continue with an interior analysis record Log>

Loud whirring noises of a small buzzsaw can be heard cutting through the metal.

[Azazel Analysis LOG]

[Sonya Stellar Interior Analysis of Space Debris Capsule]

<Alright, I am not going to grab a wedge and hammer to pry the hatch open… *WHAM WHAM WHAM Crreeaaaaaakkk SPLOTRTCHH*

Alright, the interio- *HACK COUGH COUGH COUGH*

*A panicked Dr. Stellar can be heard retching as she knocks over a tray of tools. A door slamming shut*

[Azazel Med-bay Check-up Log]

[Patient: Sonya Stellar]

Symptoms: Cough, burning throat, eyes watering, extreme nausea, headache, rash on the right hand, singed nose hairs, REDACTED, REDACTED.

Diagnoses: Unknown… processing…. Processing… alternative Diagnoses match descriptions of studies by historic studies performed by Monarch. For treatment request such a file with your Historic archive database representative.

Have a nice day, Feel better thanks to the Company! 😊

[Sonya Stellar Log # 3]

<Drew came by just now having my dinner. I've been put in quarantine after my… incident with the pod. The pod is also in quarantine in the bay. I feel fine *Cough Cough, Hacks a nasty spit out*.

It's difficult to breathe occasionally… and that fuckin smell. I can't get it out of my head. *Groans*

I can't tell if it's in my nose or burned into my head. It was like that time Grandpa had lost power to the deep freezer in the garage. *Eugh*

It was…. Weirdly nostalgic of Earth. The grime of it all…

I need to rest… feeling dizzy again. Goodnight computer

[Computer Error log!]

[Source Quarantine Bay #2]

[Respond ASAP]

<…. Ventilation quarantine system ERROR.>

[Sonya Stellar Log # 4]

[Sonya Stellar Log # 5]

[Sonya Stellar Log # 6]

<I'm really freaking out now. The food I received today was fucked. It was moldy, and the water browned…. I couldn’t help myself though, I ate it. And it was DELICOUS. The rancid taste of off eggs and the hints of grime in the water. It Cleared my throat and felt amazing. Am I losing it??? What little view I had of the hallway through my door has become dark… and the heat won't stop… I have now placed something over the vent… anything to stop the humidity please>

[Sonya Stellar Log # 7]

<I feel disgusting. I haven’t showered…. In… I don't know how long. Has it been days? Hours? WEEKS? How many logs have I sent off? Is anyone getting these?

Idk… the food was wonderful again today…. Slimy steak sludge with a dark green shlop in a glass. My hair… now is matting and is ruining the pillow I sleep on. The outside soundscape has changed… This morning I felt a large shift in the ship… Uzza must have docked. Which my medication must be here. I heard radios and breathing apparatuses. Bright flashlights shined through the glass, revealing that the outside was now enveloped… in a dark algae-like substance… a lot like the pod. I worried for the captain, the staff, and Drew…>

[Sonya Stellar Log # 8]

[Sonya Stellar Log # 9]

<Something is definitely wrong with me. My skin is… changing. When I squeeze my palms I can feel a grease ooze out of the pores. My lungs don’t burn when I breathe this shit *A waving of hands to clear the camera sight of the building haze* Out of desperation I have started drinking some of the oozes that creep through the door and vent. It tastes so nasty…. but God, I love it. *Drool dribbles her lips*

The vent situation has not improved, the haze has increased exponentially. The lighting now flickers in the station. I don’t know how long I can keep the logs up. I will need to leave this room… I can't eat this slime forever... plus the whispers they are calling to me. *She looks off-screen suddenly… walking off screen… the computer auto sleeps. End of Log*

[Sonya Stellar Log # 10]

<The Smog it speaks. It’s Everywhere. My Lungs. My skin. The Walls, they BREATHE out the Miasma~ She tells me it is good~ yess. Yes. She finally reached out, and I accepted her. I'm breaking out today. To revel in the gift of the filth. *Heavy huffing can be heard. Long strands of drool dripped from her droopy lip, her hair long and nappy. She gets up, and with a loud guttural shlop of the gunk outside the door falls from its hinges. Maniacal laughing can be heard as she disappears into the dimly noxious hall… End of Log*

[Drew refugee aboard the Azza]

[Now volunteered member to analyze for potential scrap and recovery of information from Azazel]

[Extraction Log: Drew]

<Coming in for spacewalk entry of Azazel. Hooking extraction guideline to hatch now. Have entered Air lock, do you read me Azza? Azza? *Static* Shit…. Must be worse in here than I thought. God fucking damn it… well, gotta get this over with. *Deep sigh*

Oxygen levels 95%, Airlock is pressurized accordingly, Beginning entry… *The ding of an airlock decompression. And suddenly a WHOOSH of green and brown miasmic smog filled the airlock from within Azazel. Luckily Drew still had his space suit on, He braced bringing his hand in front of his face as the airlock filled*

The Azazel oxygen and atmosphere have been compromised. Readings from within show oxygen levels are 0%, now compromised of Sulfur, methane, and a slew of other chemicals. Stepping through the main corridor now. *Squelch squelch squelch*

The entire station has been enveloped in mucus of some kind… it's very warm to the touch I can feel it through the suit. There are mounds of rot and debris everywhere blocking entire paths within the station *Retch, Just the sight was enough to activate his gag reflex* I will radio in when I get deeper and see something interesting>

<Moving is getting difficult, the floor is thick with the shit. I can feel the warmth through my suit. So far nothing has been found for reclamation. About to approach the source.... the pod.

*Drew's visor starts to light up with warnings as he beeps into the keypad to enter. Suddenly you hear Drew yell as his entire camera feed gets enveloped in a rancid haze. Chittering laughter and insane muttering can be heard echoing through the camera's built-in mic*

Yezzzzz, drag him, DRAG HIM. Embrace yuzzzz~ Let it soakkkk. Breathe it in. The rot claims All. Maggggiieeee~>

[Last known broadcast from Company scientist Drew stationed on Azazel]

*The screen cracked, and green sludge ran down the view. It appears to be upside down facing the pod from above. The visual is a lot like a boiling cauldron overflowing with a burning acrid smog dripping from the repulsive slime that crept out. A figure floated above the cauldron, she was floating cackling to herself balling up sniffing her own rancid perfume, and calling out to Sonya who was dragging an unconscious Drew into the frame. Sonya gestures to Drew bowing to the figure. Maggie grabs Sonya by the chin, kissing her. You watch Sonya Cough and retch, thick saliva dribbling out as she can't stop taking in deep inhales of the exhaust; Nearly crumbling in euphoria. A struggling Drew starts to shout as the alien-like creature buzzes over to him lying on the ground. Her fumes cascaded and enveloped him. The only thing he could see through the putrescence was her glowing red eyes and neon teeth. Kicking his legs and flailing as he gives into the kiss from her, her saliva burning through his protective helmet shielding… stops kicking and starts to giggle. Taking in deeper and deeper drags till he enters a deep sleep. *

[Closing Case: REDACTED Azazel]

[This footage never can make it to the surface or the public eye. This is a biohazard threat on a global scale. The science team aboard Uzza and Azza have a new directive… and that’s to contain Azazel and keep an eye on the growing issue there. There will be a special team coming up on the next resupply ship, Monarch.]

#mysophilia #flysona #filth #stink #smelly #trash #garbage #maggie #smog #short story #sci fi horror #corruption kink

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justvaldas · 8 years ago

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Angry Cat’s saturday spent playing with little 433 MHz transmitter module. 03 - 03 - 2017.

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shieldwinter · 4 years ago

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That One is You (Stucky Drabble)

This is dedicated to @sarastars for putting up with me freaking out about my writing.

“Dance with me.”

Bucky’s voice was soft, where he stood in the soft dusk light shining through their opened living room window. A breeze blew in, ruffling the cream curtains and letting the scent of fallen leaves and oncoming rain whisk in. It was still warm, despite being a few weeks into autumn, and Steve never liked to run the A/C when the windows to the apartment were plenty functional.

A metal hand extended out to him, hovering in front of his face. An invitation, to take it and place it on his shoulder, to pull Bucky close as they swayed, comforted by each other’s warmth.

“I can’t dance Buck. That much hasn’t changed,” Steve said instead of taking the hand, eyes flicking up to meet the stormy greys of Bucky. There was a small smile tugging up the corners of his mouth, seemingly unperturbed by Steve’s refusal.

“It’s not like we’re at a dance hall, Stevie,” Bucky pointed out, hand still hovering. He wasn’t backing down.

“It’s just us. No one’s here to see you step on my toes. Come on, up with ya.” He implored, insistent but still soft. How could Steve turn him down? Whatever little conviction he had, it seemed to melt right away, and he took Bucky’s hand in his own.

The metal was always cool at first touch, but it quickly warmed once Bucky’s hand was wrapped securely around his, pulling Steve effortlessly to his feet. With a push of Bucky’s socked foot, their couch skidded across the hardwood floor with a stutter, opening up the space for them to dance proper.

Once Bucky had Steve where he wanted him, he stepped away to walk over to the old-fashioned radio settled on an end table. It was a gift from Sam, a housewarming gift when Bucky had decided to move in with Steve.

He could never thank Sam enough for it, with the way Bucky’s eyes lit up at the sight of something so familiar yet long forgotten. Frankly, he didn’t think a thank you would ever be enough.

Bucky turned the dial, the radio face illuminating with a dim yellow light, static crackling through the speakers until a clear channel was found. The tail end of a song began to play, one Steve vaguely recognised but couldn’t name. It was upbeat, not quite fit for dancing and Steve voiced those thoughts out to Bucky.

He was met with a reassuring grin.

“Don’t worry. I know a good tune will come on in a moment,” he assured, stepping back up to Steve and taking his hand in one of his own. He brought Steve’s other hand to rest just above his hip, laying his own over top for just a brief moment.

“You lead,” he told, and Steve swallowed. He really didn’t want to step on Bucky’s toes, and leading was a sure-fire way to do just that.

The song came to a close, and the two stood in silence for a beat of a moment before a man came through the radio, voice soothing.

“And this next one up is a call in request,” he informed, “a Mister Barnes requested this one be played at seven pm. So here is I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire by the Ink Spots.”

Steve gasped, eyes widening and finding Bucky’s, who just had a knowing glint shining in his own. He didn’t have time to comment, the intro to the song too short, before Bill Kenny’s tenor voice rang through the room.

Bucky gave just as much time for Steve to recover, before he gave one tug of his hand, and Steve began to lead them in a slow dance. It was nothing more than a circle, his feet moving mindfully of Bucky’s.

“I don’t want to set the world on fire I just want to start A flame in your heart,”

Bucky’s grip was light in Steve’s, where their hands were raised at shoulder level. His other hand splayed at the back of Steve’s neck, thumb gently brushing against the soft hairs there.

“In my heart I have but one desire And that one is you No other will do,”

Steve’s hand at Bucky’s hip wound around, pulling him just a bit closer. He felt a smile fall upon his lips, eyes all for Bucky — the blissful peace on his face as the music crooned around them, filling the autumn silence with sounds of the 40s.

“I’ve lost all ambition For worldly acclaim I just want to be the one you love,”

Slowly, Bucky closed the remaining distance between them to rest his head upon Steve’s shoulder, their arms dropping in preference to wind around each other in an embrace. They continued swaying to the music, feet barely moving — too caught up in the warmth of each other.

“And with your admission That you feel the same I’ll have reached the goal I’m dreaming of Believe me,”

A soft kiss was pressed to the underside of his jaw, Bucky’s lips warm. Steve felt the smallest of shudders flit down his spine, and he averted his eyes to gaze down at the man in his arms.

Bucky’s mouth opened, his rough tone clashing with Bill Kenny’s voice as he sang along to the next lines, but Steve still thought it was the most beautiful sound in the world.

“I don’t want to set the world on fire I just want to start A flame in your heart,”

He loved him. He loved Bucky Barnes so much, sometimes it was painful. For so many years he had to wonder why he fell in love with someone he could never have. Waking up into a world so unfamiliar had done a lot of harm, but the one shining beacon was finding Bucky again, and finding out he felt the same. Steve, as a kid, never entertained this. It was a faraway dream.

But Bucky now, curled around him in a slow dance, was as real as it got. It was everything Steve could’ve ever asked for — and he may not deserve it, but he’ll do everything in his power to make their lives together worth it.

“I love you,” Steve said, voice barely above a whisper, the music playing falling into the background of his mind.

“I know,” was the response, “I’ve known for as long as I can remember. And I’ve loved you, for that long and longer.” Bucky admitted, lifting his head to be face-to-face with Steve.

He looked so soft like this, like the troubles in their lives couldn’t touch him in this very moment.

“To the end of the line, Stevie. Always.”

“To the end of the line.”

FIN

#please im actually super proud of this im yelling #stucky #stucky fic #stucky drabble #stevebucky #stevebucky fic #wintershield #steve rogers #bucky barnes

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chrfaith · 3 years ago

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template credit: X

*waves* bonjour & bon jovi everyone! i'm really stoked to be here, as i've been eyeing the premise of this group for quite some time, and finally found the courage to bring a muse in! and what a messy lovely muse she is. no but seriously i have a soft spot for her and am super excited to write her with you all! so if you'd like to read more about this rebel with a cause who's still struggling with loving herself in some complex ways, pls do click the cut below for some quick info and important links that will delve more into detail! as always, if any plots interest you, or if you'd just like to plot something based on chemistry / muse personality, feel free to ♡ this post, and i'll im you to chat! ( oriewortireo unfortunately i'm a boomer trapped in a 23 yo's body who doesn't use discord 🤡 )

tw: child abuse / abandonment, drug & alcohol use

so faith's full biography can be found here, you can view some stats over here, and finally, there's some wanted plots on this page right here! below is a slightly condensed version of her backstory so you can get the gist of everything! :)

faith had a very abusive upbringing at the hands of her mother, who was a rather famous actress who'd made the transition from thailand to south korea, and become a huge star in their film and drama industry.

despite the woman's fame and success, she had a horrible reputation among her peers due to the underhanded and downright cruel things she'd do to others in the profession to get herself ahead.

after faith's father was discovered having an affair with the family's maid, he left the home behind as well as his daughter. faith's mother's anger only got more intense, at having her perfect family image destroyed in the public eye.

her daughter bore the brunt of this anger, of course, as she was the only target the woman had left. she'd found a way to blame faith for the separation and eventual divorce, as it seemed to easiest way for someone so vitriolic to deal with rejection.

faith eventually came to believe the vile things her mother told her, developing an unhealthy dislike for herself and an appetite for self destruction as she entered her teens and began attending hannam.

she'd go to parties she was too young for; drinking, inhaling or swallowing any hallucinogen anyone would offer her, just wanting to feel anything but her mother's tight, painful grip on her wrist. wanting to hear something other than morbid threats, teardowns and insults was essentially the only thing keeping her going. chasing the next high to cope with the crushing lows.

on one particular weekend, she and a couple of friends from hannam high school snuck into a nightclub. after some illegitimately attained cocktails and a dare, the group took over the dj booth while the dj was in the bathroom.

this was the night faith fell in love with the idea of being a dj. the crowd, the music; sounds filling her ears besides her mother's shrill voice? it was the escapism she'd always been searching for.

it was through her journey to learn the craft that she met the person who'd have a huge impact on her life, for better and for worse.

he was the lead singer of a fairly popular band, even though faith wasn't overly familiar. he seemed sweet and nice; like another escape to her. he was helpful with her musical aspirations, making her feel like she really mattered. she eventually was even able to book paid jobs at clubs thanks to his influence.

and there were a couple of happy years out of it, during which faith thought she'd finally found a light beacon in the storm she'd been navigating since she was a child. the only thing that seemed strange was his insistence on keeping things a secret.

there turned out to be a reason for it; he had a penchant for keeping a whole slew of girls in the wings to satiate his desires. one of them happened to be an actress, and things had gone public on a gossip news site; this is precisely where faith had the privilege of learning the news.

after breaking things off, it was all faith could do to pour herself into her deejaying and become a fvcking badass who put herself first (sometimes). she became something of a local celebrity in seoul on the club circuit, and even took to making original music rather than just remixing the works of others.

her diligence earned her some local airplay on a small electronica radio station, and hearing her own original song emanating from an actual, real radio station was the most awash in true confidence she'd ever felt.

sadly just moments later, she had the wind knocked out of her when she stumbled upon another song while changing the dials; one by her ex's band. the song was very clearly about her, with the euphemistic title 'i had faith', and it was full of intimate references to her and the things they did together. it also contained allusions to some of the darkest secrets she'd told him, and taunts about how he'd made her everything she is. she was disgusted.

it destroyed faith and rebuilt her at the same time. she decided she now existed solely to prove that she could achieve any and everything on her own; that she didn't need some fuckboy's influence to see her dreams come true.

she now has a pretty nice apartment, not too far from her old stomping grounds at hannam high school. she still struggles with believing she deserves love, or anything, really but she's a great deal closer to that goal than she was at the start!

#chrintro #/hi i luv u #/i humbly offer u this muse

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cutepikachu25 · 4 years ago

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I tried my hand at rewriting my deputy's story AGAIN. Hopefully this beginning is better. The introduction of her will come along later. It's long just fyi

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Chapter 1

Crunching of twigs under her feet, cold air rushing over every bit of her body, her throat so dry from sprinting, the muscles in her legs aching from the non-stop moving. She thought she might pass out from the persistent running, constantly pushing her endurance further and further over the edge. She turned her sights behind her every so often to check the distance between herself and the group of men chasing her. Just when she thought she could slow down, even for a few moments, shouting could be heard to find her. To find the deputy. To not let her get away. Her running was aimless and random, but with only one clear goal in mind. To escape. You’d think out running a group of mad men at night, in a wooded area no less, would be easy. But, with things being as dead quiet as they were, even the slightest noise could tell anyone which direction you were in.

The sweat was dripping down the sides of her forehead and quickly evaporating from the amount of heat being produced from her body and the anxiety coursing through her. She stopped behind a nearby tree for a breather, forcing her back so far into the trunk as if trying to become one with it. Her head tilted upwards trying to quiet her heavy breathing. While maintaining this position, her eyes quickly darted around, trying their hardest to adjust to the dark scenery, trying to find a clear cut path out of this mess. Nothing though. Just tall trees, various dirt paths, but wait—a vague light in the distance. Either a fire or maybe a porch light. Who cares? If this was the light at the end of the tunnel, it was time to make run for it. Hearing the sounds of crunching footsteps behind her in the distance gave her very little time to mull over this decision. “Fuck it.” She muttered and tried as best she could to shuffle quickly, yet quietly, towards the light. The hardest part of this quiet shuffle was trying to look over the dark ground to ensure there wasn’t anything that could giveaway where she was; dried leaves, random branches that had fallen, miscellaneous debris, etc. ‘Why couldn’t those fucks be fuckin’ hard of hearing?!’ she thought while maneuvering quietly through her chosen path all the while hoping it wouldn’t be her downfall.

Intermittently, hiding behind a tree along her way, she stared out into the distance to judge how far the light was from her current standing. It’s getting larger. And more clear. It’s a fire. A campfire. A weak smile popped up on her face, giving her a bit of hope. Maybe it was the Marshall? Maybe it was a beacon to notify anyone that had escaped the helicopter that this was the way off this cursed little island. Without a second thought, the deputy hurried over to the small fire before stopping abruptly. Almost alerting the couple of peggies that sat around it. She squatted slightly behind the trunk of a tree and narrowed her eyes over the scene. They were sitting there at the entrance of a bridge on a couple of cloth folding chairs talking. Talking about the reaping, about Joseph, and keeping an eye out for both the deputy and the Marshall. The deputy rolled her eyes at the mention of herself and the Marshall, ‘Fuckin’ wackos.’ She thought as her fingers gripped the coarse skin of the trunk. Not hearing much footsteps behind her, she began focusing on ways to get around these two. Her eyes glanced at them then off in the distance to see what was past the bridge. There was something out there, large and box-like in appearance. Carefully pulling out her binoculars, her vision redirected to the cultists at the entrance of the bridge watching their movement, as she slowly raised the binoculars over her eyes and then looked out towards the mysterious box in the distance. It’s a trailer with an Eden's Gate symbol on it. The hope she had almost ran dry until the crackling of her radio filled the quiet night air.

Eyes widened with shock and relief when the familiar voice of the Marshall came through. Her hands swiftly shoved the binoculars back on her belt and fumbled over the radio. Shock and relief washed quickly away and were replaced by pure panic as she knew she wasn’t the only one to hear his voice. Heart thumping in her chest, eyes quickly shifting back and forth between the couple of peggies and the radio knobs. Her attempts to quiet the voice did nothing. The cultists stood up, turning their heads in the direction of the sound, and raising their weapons. Calling out to the darkness to see who would answer. They slowly walked in her direction, the deputy covering her mouth with her hand as her anxiety started peeking. Nothing in her mind but sheer panic. No real thought to help her out of this situation. Her feet went into auto pilot, the fight or flight response, and started slowly backing her away from the incoming threat. With her hand still clasped over her mouth, and her feet still absentmindingly moving her backwards, her thought process came back. ‘You have no weapons! The fuck you gonna do?!’ Trying to lull the fear chewing at her brain, her eyes looked around for anything that would make a good weapon. Nothing, nothing but fucking branches! Just when she thought she screwed herself, her backwards walking caused the heel of one of her feet to hit something hard on the ground. She quickly looked down and behind her at the ground only to see a large, and thick enough branch, to use as a club of sorts. The cultist might have guns, but one good whack from this could atleast knock them unconscious. Her hands snatched it up, the anxiety from everything causing her hands to shake. Lucky for her the gloves helped her maintain a good grip on the would-be weapon, without them this branch would have easily slipped through her perspiring hands. Keeping a decent distance between her and the couple cultists, and the darkness of the night working in her favor, she carefully circled around the two until she ended up behind them both. Before getting in her ready position, she started to slow her breathing and wiped the sweat developing on her hairline, her feet steadily starting to make her way towards them. Swirling the weapon to prepare for the inevitable swing, she closed in on both of them, and with a surge of adrenaline, slammed the thick bit of wood into the back of the head of one of them and right in the face of the other. A nice sound of skull to wood impact echoed in the small area as she dropped her hand holding the thick branch to her side, her chest heaving from the sheer amount of adrenaline running rampant in her. Her free hand rubbing her now sweat ridden face and going down her neck to her chest. “Fuck..” The deputy muttered noticing more sweat on her skin than earlier. She shook her hand off, a vague attempt to flick off the built up sweat accumulated on her glove, and shook the branch to either prep for a potential round two with them or to shake off some of the adrenaline she was still reeling from.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the unconscious cultists until she remembered the Marshall’s call from earlier. Before she flew into a panic, she had remembered him mentioning something about a location to meet at. A trailer across a long bridge. Her head turned towards the bridge. She glanced back at the peggies lying on the ground in front of her before walking towards the bridge with a bit more confidence in her walk knowing now that she stood a slight better chance against Eden’s Gate followers now.

Looking over the entrance of the bridge with the help of a dim lantern, it seemed fairly sturdy. She pressed her foot down on the first wooden piece. It made a slight creaking noise that caused her to quickly retract her foot. She took a couple steps back to assess the result of her actions. Just because Joseph could acquire a large following didn’t mean that a lot of them could be skilled builders. She stepped forward and ran her fingers over the rough ropes that stood as railing. Seeming pretty taught and the placement of the wood steps done well, she decided to give it a go. Slowly treading across each piece, trying her best not to look over or worry about just falling through. The bridge swayed a bit with each movement but that was expected. Taking this as her only moment to enjoy a small piece of the night, she allowed herself to take her time making her way to the trailer. It was quiet, it was cool, and the creaking of the wood beneath her steps eased her mind momentarily because she knew at any moment things could take a turn for the worst again. The crackling of another small fire became more prominent in her ears as she neared the trailer. Still gripping the wooden club, she stood at the other side of the bridge looking around. Not moving at all, just scanning everything with her eyes. Not knowing what could be lurking in the shadows, she started adjusting the grip she had on the club. Her mouth clenched shut as she proceeded to make her way towards the trailer. It was all just to eerily quiet. Too good to be true even. The Marshall just posted up inside the trailer, safe and sound. This had to be a trick. He was probably dead inside and a small group of peggies were waiting inside instead to drag her back to the church. She shuddered at the thought and slowly walked, one foot at a time on each step, until she reached the door. Both hands now gripped tightly onto the club, she took a deep breath and prepared herself for the worst possible outcome.

Quickly her foot met the door with force, kicking it open with the door’s handle slamming into the interior wall. Running in, wooden club held in the position of a batter ready to hit that homerun, the Marshall grabbed her unexpectedly by her forearms struggling to stop her from swinging. “ROOK! ROOKIE!” stumbled out of his mouth as he tried to calm her down. “It’s me! The marshall!” Her strength lessened as she heard his voice, her eyes focused on his. “Stop! Relax.” He let go of one of her arms and raised a finger to his mouth, her eyes watching his movements. “I thought they got you back there.” The Marshall took a deep breath as the deputy slowly lowered her weapon. “Well, I honestly thought you—” the Marshall raised a finger again to his mouth signaling the deputy was speaking a little too loud. She lowered her voice to a strained whisper as she walked towards him, never taking her eyes off him. “You were dead!” She felt some resentment towards him, just leaving her and the others as he did. How selfish she thought. Straining a whisper again, she started laying into him, “You just fuckin’ left us there! That’s fucked up! You had to get--!” He grabbed her by the shoulders, squeezing them tightly, as if to physically control her anger, with his brows lowered, “Now, is not the time to get into this! We have to get out of here and come back with the goddamn National Guard!” Sharing the same strained whisper, he released her shoulders and turned around. “Go look in that room, make sure no one’s in there. I’ll look over here.” The Marshall motioned over to the small room to the right of her. She only glared at him before turning around to inspect the room. A quick look, showed not a soul and she walked over to the main room where the Marshall was. She propped her wooden club up against one of the walls with random carvings of Joseph's babbling. The deputy noticed the Marshall eyeing a family portrait of the Seeds on the wall. He reached over and yanked it from the wall, “We're putting this whole family away.” He stared at it in hatred and slammed it down on a nearby desk causing the glass in the frame to shatter. “Fuckin' lunatics!” The Marshall spat as he spun around. The deputy stepped over and looked at the photo for a second. She grinned and chuckled, “Yooo..” The Marshall turned back around, staring at the deputy with confusion, “What?” The deputy, still grinning, maintained the whisper, without strain this time but more so amusement, “He’s lying. He is not that tall. He short as fuck!” She giggled while she lifted the broken frame and pointed at John. The Marshall looked at her unamused and just shook his head, “This isn’t the time to joke around, Rookie.” He said as he shuffled through some drawers. “We need to find ammunition. Guns. Anything to get us back on the road and out of here.” Squatting down now to search through the bottom drawer, he briefly turned to face her. “You need to focus.” He then turned his attention back to the drawer. Deputy gave a look of disappointment, but knew he was right. This was not a time to mess around. She had to get serious. “Okay, okay.” Waving a hand of dismissal towards him, she tossed the photo aside, leading to the sound of more glass hitting the desk and floor. The Marshall quickly looked up at her, clearly bothered by her disregard for keeping quiet. She stared back at him, mouthing ‘Sorry.’ with a shrug and a look sincerity. It’s not that she wanted them to be found, she just didn’t think some times. He just shook his head again before he stumbled on a couple of clips of ammunition. “Hey,” he whispered and waved her over, “here, take this and go get that gun on the wall.” Deputy crouched beside him and grabbed the clip, “Is there anymore?” The Marshall lifted a few more random bits around in the desk then turned back to her, “No, so use it wisely.” He checked the clip in his handgun while the deputy got up and wandered over to the wall, clip in hand and one in her back pocket.

As she lifted the gun off the wall and loaded the clip, she noticed some movement outside the window. She froze, one hand on the barrel and the other on the clip, “There’s something outside.” Her eyes never leaving the window, she whispered to the Marshall behind her. He got up and slowly made his way to the window, both scanning the outside. Both staring outside, “What did you see?” He swallowed as he held onto his gun, both hands squeezing the handle, one finger tickling the side of the trigger lightly. Deputy narrowed her eyes, hoping this would help her focus even more, “I heard something near those trees over there.” Her head gesturing towards the right of them near a car port. They stood in silence for a few seconds, listening. Waiting. Every sound in that short moment caught their attention. The trees rustling softly, the fire crackling, distant noises from animals, but not one sound related to a person. Then, without warning, a large rock came sailing through the window scattering glass shards inside. “SHIT!” The Marshall grabbed deputy and threw them both on the floor.

“What the hell was that?!”

“I don’t know, but we gotta get the fuck outta here NOW!”

She glanced at the large rock on the floor and pushed herself up on her feet, looking around for the Marshall. “Rook!” Gun fire could now be heard outside leading them both to squat on the floor, he was across the way. “I noticed a truck outside,” he crawled over towards her, ducking beneath the window alongside her, “Try to thin them out as much as possible. I’m gonna make my way to the truck. You jump in when I give the signal!” She nodded her head, “Okay! But, hurry the fuck up!” He nodded in a agreement before heading towards a window near the front door. Deputy leaned up against the wall squatting still, knowing full well her thighs were hurting still from sprinting all this way. Ignoring the Marshall’s obvious antagonistic shouting, she took a deep breath to push down her anxiety that dared to tear away at her concentration, gripped her gun, and spun around to aim outside the broken window. ‘Just focus one at a time. Don’t fuckin' panic, not now!’ She gritted her teeth as she stared down one peggie in her sights and pulled the trigger. The recoil from each shot fired gave her more determination to focus on holding steady. Without her covering the Marshall, he’d probably be dead. And, if he dies, you’ll probably die too. Setting up this all too realistic thought in her head, made her try even harder to shoot through her anxiety.

#far cry 5 #deputy #story #the beginning

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thepineapplejuicer · 6 years ago

Text

Know It All: An Xmen Evolution Fanfiction Chapter 6

Title: Know It All

Chapter 6

Nightcrawler fanfic (I do not own the X-men or the gifs).

Violet Ashbourne is a gifted human hacker in possession of a radio, a secret device that gains her access to a large underground information network and electronics all over the world. Human and mutant coexistence has always been her goal, but will the betrayal of her mutant mother and father- once partners to her rise to power- distort her beliefs? Will the X-men be able to save her from her own pride and ambition? Or will she sacrifice everything, including the only boy she’s ever trusted, for vengeance?

We sit silently in the car as we drive away. I engage the security setting of the mansion again from my phone once we are far enough so as not to raise alarm. "You sure you don't want to do this tomorrow?" Bronco asks as he drives. I look at the neon numbers on the radio. 3:28 a.m. "No," I state. "Thank you for coming so soon," I say quieter. "Anytime, Boss. Plus, not like I was doing much, just trying to fix the weather controls in Sanctuary while Nisha follows up on a lead." his Russian accent grows deeper at the end of each sentence.

"Yes, she told me about going back to London to follow up on witnesses of the shooting."

The conversation dies.

The city starts to morph into landscape, crooked trees with leaves scraping against each other and the low mummers of wildlife. I look back at the clock. 3:54 a.m. Is someone in my room? Have they noticed I'm gone? I inhale deeply and hold it in my chest. The cold air from the crack in the window tingles my skin, making me rub them violently. "Go a little faster," I demand. Bronco does not protest and the car's sudden exhilaration wacks my hair on the headrest.

"You sure this isn't a trap?" Bronco asks, fidgeting with the steering wheel.

"Of course it is."

"Then why go?"

I growl, "Becuase I want to see her."

The car slows to a stop and we both exit, the cold air sending tears to line our eyes. The road is empty and the car's headlights are the only thing keeping us from going as blind as the bats above us. "This is the place you picked?" Bronco asks reading the stone sign.

"You should know, I always have a failsafe."

We walk into the cemetery, lunging over dead flowers and tombstones. I take a look around seeing dozens of graves surrounding us, soft soil destroying our shoes. I keep a distance from Bronco just in case he needs his powers.

A rustling comes from ahead of us and two figures stand, shrowding the third. "Darling." She says in awe, pushing the bodyguards apart. Her auburn hair is darker in this light, or maybe she darkened it herself. I couldn't tell whether the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth were new or if she had had them earlier. She wore a pantsuit, lined with yellow and orange trim, her cuffs lined with silver like aluminum foil.

"Mother," I hum, "How longs it been? Two years, going on three?"

"You mustn't think I don't hear the sarcasm in your voice."

"At least you can recognize one thing about me."

"I did not call this meeting so you could scrutinize me for taking over the Platform and managing our armies."

"Your armies." I corrected. I wanted nothing to do with my father's proposal of opening up the Platform, an entire city dedicated to his private troops and war machines. My mother took that position for power and it cost her more than two years of my life. I sigh and fold my arms, "So why did you call this meeting?"

"Your father is worried, Darling."

"MY FATHER!-" I stopped and rolled my shoulders, "My father... opened fire on me and left me to rot in a jail interrogation room."

"He thought you betrayed him when that bullet hit him. He didn't know that the bands were put on against your will. Considering your argument before the events occurred can you blame him for thinking that?"

"So his initial reaction is to order the death of his only child?! Are you honestly content with that?!"

She is silent, the darkness making it hard to read her, "Your father knows best."

Four words I know all too well.

She steps closer, "We know you are will the Xmen and cannot openly go against them, but know this: they cannot help you."

"And you can?"

"We can find Moriarty, get those things off of you and back to Purgatory. We just want you home."

On instinct, I remember the event before I was kidnaped by Moriarty. My father went mad, demanding my radio be handed to him, then I think of what Xavier said. If the band's technology were to fall into the wrong hands...

My father definitely classifies as 'wrong hands.'

I take a step back, "The Xmen are onto something. I think I'll take my chances."

Bronco and I jump as a loud beeping comes from behind my mother and the back of a truck destroys the bushes. The metal shutter shoots up and I look into the darkness at the holding cell within.

"Unless... this isn't a request." I frown.

My mother's face is unchanged, "get into the van, Violet." she demands calmly as her hands clench, a frothy flame igniting her forearms.

I sigh without a second thought, "Bronco,"

He straightens his posture, "Boss?"

"Wake them up."

He nods, walking in front of my mother and bodyguards who are ready to light Bronco up in a flame or bullets. I take a few steps back and watch as Broncos eyes roll to the back of his head, his arms rising from the force of his power.

Patches of dirt and wet grass fly between us as hands claw out of the ground, the inhabitants of the cemetery stumble together like vermin. The walking dead groan violently as the launch themselves at my mother's forces. The smell makes me gag and the deformed humans limp passed Bronco and I. Bronco signals me to run the opposite way, maintaining distance as we bump into more undead. I turn and see my mother's flames burn through them effortlessly as we escape.

I remember her once, promising me something: 'I'll never use my powers against you, Darling.'

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Bronco stops a few blocks away from the Xmansion, careful about making eye contact with me.

"You don't have to say anything," I say, reassuring that he is not entitled to make me feel better. "They've made their side clear. Perhaps when these things are off, they will just want me for a hacker, not a death tool." At this point, I am mostly speaking to myself.

"You sure that you want to stay with the Xmen?" Bronco asks.

"At this point, they are my only option."

"Keep us updated, Boss." Bronco grabs my hand, "We worry about you."

I smile weakly and get out of the car. He drives away as I head towards the mansion.

The sunrise comes slowly as I reach the gates. Pulling out my phone to disable the alarms my neck scrunches back. The alarms are active. I open the gate quickly and see the turrents blown to pieces. There are nets scattered and small lawn fires puffing like violent candles. "No." I gasp shoving the main door open. "Kurt?!" I yell, "Xavier?!" I run farther into the mansion scoping the rooms with toppled furniture, broken glass, and wood scattered along the stairs. "ANYONE?!"

The sub-basement is empty. My monitors are shattered, but one is still active. I search through last nights footage and see the students sleeping normally until several giant orbs burst through all directs of the walls and collect them all. My hand barely touches my face as I gasp. It couldn't be my father. It was too soon.

There has to be a way to find them! I tap along my keyboard to find a signal, something the orbs could have released into a frequency. I look closer at one of the orbs in the video. "Complete metal?" My eyes widen and I run to Xavier's study.

"Telepathy can't be the only way to locate you," I mutter to myself as I tap into Ciribro's database. "If you link your head to this it should be able to find you like..."

PING

"A beacon! Xavier your giant head just saved your life." I send the coordinates Ciribro gives me to my phone and rush to the garage.

Most of the cars had been totaled except Scott's sports car.

I zoom out of the mansion, checking my mirrors and follow my GPS, hoping- praying- that it anyone but my father who took them.

(chapter 7 will be posted on Wednesday, June 26, 2019

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find-the-eyes · 5 years ago

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I’ll Try Anything Once: Chapter 33

Written by: Sol Edited by: Sol, Allegra

Author’s note:

Hi! Sol here! This chapter is pretty experimental and I tried a multimedia format instead of traditional plain text. I wrote this chapter to follow the structure of Haruomi Hosono’s “Watering A Flower.” So… Click on each link as you get to it! Enjoy!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zlpva2-5FMs&t=63s

Nick didn’t know where he was. Usually he was in a field of wildflowers, but now, his half-open eyes only saw an endless expanse of ocean. Was he on a boat, lost at sea? A droplet of water streamed down his face. And then another. There was a storm on the horizon. He watched as the storm came in faster than he expected, soon soaking through his hair and dripping down the back of his neck. Although the boat was rocking and he felt uncomfortable, Nick was calm. He didn’t move at all. He missed the field of wildflowers, but he didn’t mind the rain. He saw the frog plushie sitting at the foot of his bed and reached for it. His hand twitched. He couldn’t lose the frog in the storm. Why couldn’t he see it anymore? Where was it going?

Nick felt the rain on his arms now. Or was it ocean water? It felt too refreshing to be ocean water. It was definitely rain. Nick felt pressure on his shoulders. It was probably just his jacket weighing down on him after being soaked by the rain. But then it went away… He looked around the room and saw someone next to him. Alex? No. It had to be one of the crew members on the boat. But… Nick only wanted Alex. Or at least someone who would comfort him and make him feel better. Nick missed Alex’s presence and how his gentle touch and comfortable smiles put him at ease.

Soon, he felt the rain on his chest. That was the scariest part, but it was over quickly, as the storm made sure to be gentle. Nick’s chest was quickly dried off and covered with a blanket. He was thankful for that, and thankful for maybe, possibly, having soft hair again after all of this was over.

“You’re doing alright, Nick?”

Nick couldn’t even move his head to nod and signal that yes, he was alright. His hands twitched as he tried to answer.

“Left for yes, right for no.”

Nick concentrated on a blank spot on the ceiling and focused all of his energy on his left hand. Yes.

“Good. We’ll be done soon,” the voice next to Nick reassured him. Nick wanted to believe him, but he had a hard time believing that anything was certain.

Nick closed his eyes again and focused on his breathing. Well, not really his breathing, but the breathing going on inside of his body. If I don’t make it… Nick wished that someone could just take his tube out. He wanted to feel better, but his body wouldn’t allow it. Please be done soon. I want to go home.

The boat was still rocking. Nick knew that he was being shifted and tilted, making sure that the still-working parts of his body still worked, but his mind wouldn’t let him believe it. He was on a boat, lost at sea.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hbQMWSmOFS4

As soon as Nick was warm and dry and dressed and his chills had gone away, the door was shut and the lights were turned off. Bedtime. Well, all the time was bedtime, considering he couldn’t move from his bed without risking his life, but he knew the hospital staff wanted him to sleep. He couldn’t. He was alone. He couldn’t even see the frog plushie in the darkness surrounding him. A few terrified tears escaped Nick’s eyes as his boat turned into a spaceship, rocketing through space at a speed faster than anything he’d ever experienced. Planets and stars whizzed by, glimmering briefly in the windows. Nick was strapped to his seat in the cockpit, unable to even look around. What were these machines for? Where was he going? Was someone going to be waiting for him when he got there? Where was Alex? It was all so unfamiliar… Nick was terrified. He could feel his hands trembling as his eyes watered more. Was there a destination on this journey, or would he be lost forever?

Suddenly, the spaceship spun around, although Nick didn’t feel like he moved at all. He was confronted with his favorite celestial object just meters from his spaceship. Moon… Nick thought to himself, wanting to smile, but not being able to move the muscles required to make that happen. He tried to reach out and press his hands against the cold glass of the window in front of him, but he couldn’t.

The moon felt like a comforting friend as Nick’s space shuttle orbited it. He was completely captivated by its soft, cool light. Where was the sun? Nick couldn’t turn his head to look for it. Although the impending panic of the situation was still washing over him in occasional waves, the cooling presence of the moon comforted him. He just wanted someone to lightly touch his arm, or kiss his cheek and tell him everything was going to be alright. Stability. That’s what he wanted. Closure. An end goal. A way out.

Suddenly, his spaceship spun around and he was faced with the stars and planets whizzing by once more. He blinked the tears out of his eyes and felt them roll all the way down his face, and down his neck, and get lost somewhere between his chest and the blankets. Nick wished he could pull the blankets up around his face and hide, or go home to the fluffy comforter on Alex’s bed, but he was stuck in the dark, in a blank, white hospital room, drifting through space.

The stars were bright, but unfamiliar. They cast beams of light across the space shuttle, each one disappearing as fast as the one before as Nick continued to hurtle through space. The stars shone not as beacons of hope or reassurance, but as reminders that Nick might never see them again. Nick tried to keep his eyes open and watch as the stars twirled around his spaceship, but was so tired that he didn’t want to. Their dazzling light burned his exhausted eyes, anyway. Where was Alex? Why was he in space? Where was he? Nick was so far away from everything he’d ever known…

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mVFf4U6pssI

Until he wasn’t. It was summer, in a run-down flat in Munich. Nick sat curled up on the sofa in the living room, munching on a bowl of cherries and reading a book for his summer reading project. Rereading the same page over and over. The air conditioner buzzed under the window and the curtains gently fluttered against the wooden floor. A bird flew back and forth outside, gathering sticks and string for its nest. Nick stopped reading to admire the bird's bright blue wings and its chirping song.

Trying to see past the machines to the small sliver of light against the wall, Nick wished he could be outside in the trees, too. He blinked a few times and tried to tell his mind to be quiet, and that he would be back outside someday.

“You’re coming tonight, yeah?” Lukas asked, fixing his hair as he walked into the small living room. He approached Nick and stood in front of him, checking his appearance in the reflection of the window.

Nick nodded and put his book down. “I’m planning on it. Where’s your gig at, again?”

“Down the road somewhere,” Lukas laughed, picking up a piece of mail from the side table. “Ah, shit. Electric bill. Anyway, you say you’re planning on it as if you have a choice. I wouldn’t let you stay home by yourself.”

“Why’s that?” Nick was sixteen, after all, and definitely capable of staying home alone. All of the other kids at his school stayed home alone all the time, but Lukas would never allow it. They all lived in nicer parts of the city, or had better security on the front doors of their flats, or weren’t worried about the local authorities busting in again at three in the morning.

“I’m just looking out for you. I don’t want anything bad happening to you.”

“Yeah," Nick said, trying to hide his disappointment. "Want some cherries?” Nick held the bowl out to Lukas, who took a handful of cherries and went into the kitchen.

Nick knew where this was going as he stared up at the dark ceiling. He wasn’t in space anymore, and there was no way to go back. His hand began to twitch.

Nick got up from the sofa and went into the bedroom that he shared with Lukas. He sighed and stopped to make his bed, looking up at the new posters on Lukas’s side of the room. He was always into some new Krautrock band, some new musical style to take inspiration from. Lukas insisted that he never copied other bands, but occasionally Nick would hear him play something that sounded just a bit too similar to a song he had heard on the radio the other day. Lukas always said it was just an influence. Nick smiled to himself as he picked out an outfit for the night. He considered wearing his favorite denim jacket, but he didn’t think that night was important enough to wear it on. He reserved that jacket for two occasions: for going out with Lukas and his friends, and for being onstage. He wasn’t doing either of those that night.

A few hours later, Nick and Lukas made their way to the venue down the street from their flat. Nick brought his summer reading book, now rereading the next page over and over after finally understanding the one before. As he took a seat at a table towards the back, he noticed someone staring at him, eyeing him down.

Nick tried to turn his attention back to the book he was reading, but the eyes burning into the back of his head told him he was already a target. You’re just paranoid, it’s fine. Wait for Lukas and then go home.

As the gig began, Nick tried his best to lose himself in the music. He focused on the stage, flicking the pages of his book with his thumb. He wondered if the man was still nearby. When Nick eventually worked up the courage to glance behind him, he was horrified to see that the man was sitting even closer. Nick’s hands froze and his entire body began to feel cold. Lukas was onstage. There was nothing Nick could do. He sat and waited, trying to ignore the man staring at him. He watched Lukas onstage and pleaded to him silently. As soon as he was done, Nick rushed to find him.

“We have to go home. There’s someone in here that recognizes us,” Nick said quietly.

“You can go home,” Lukas sighed. “I’m staying. Not missing out on a good party.”

“Alright…” Nick looked towards the back of the bar. “Promise you’ll be home in an hour?”

“Promise.” Lukas patted Nick’s back and turned back to his friends.

In his hospital bed, Nick was shaking more than ever, twitching and thrashing and trying to get rid of the memory. His arms flailed uncontrollably, dislodging all sorts of IVs and monitors. Nick heard frantic beeps from the machines around him, watching him with cold, unwavering gazes. After a few minutes of thrashing, he felt the tube in his throat shift quite drastically. He choked and tried to cough, the tube sliding against his vocal chords.

Nick walked anxiously down the street, an intense feeling of being watched hanging around his head. It’s nothing. You’re just being silly. Why did he tell himself that? Why was he so stupid? He looked over his shoulder. No one. He kept going, still cautious. He felt a cold hand on his leg, which was kicking out uncontrollably. “What’s wrong?” Nick knew exactly when the man would appear behind him. He made slightly less choked sounds than before, trying to scream, unable to breathe.

“I-I think he needs more sedatives,” a frightened voice next to him said softly, “and he’s dislodged his ventilator.”

Nick cried more as he kept thrashing and shaking. Please help. The saliva that would usually drip from his slightly-parted lips was dripping back into his throat instead. His tears blurred his vision, which was beginning to go dark around the edges. He couldn't even see the small sliver of moonlight glowing on the wall across from the window anymore. He felt his eyes rolling back into his head as he fought to stay awake.

“Shh, it’s alright,” the voice reassured Nick, trying to calm him down enough to reposition the tube in his throat. His body kept kicking and thrashing, disregarding what the voice said. No matter how hard Nick tried, he could not control himself and his flailing body. However, as he couldn’t breathe, his movements soon died down.

Nick turned to make sure no one was following him. He wanted to take off running, but as he locked eyes with the man following him home, he could only watch with wide eyes.

Dizzy from a lack of oxygen, Nick passed out just as the man behind him fired a quick shot. But at least he wasn’t alone.

#franz ferdinand #allfanfic #illtryanythingonce

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vacationsoup · 5 years ago

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New Post has been published on https://vacationsoup.com/ponce-lighthouse-adventure/

Ponce Lighthouse Adventure near New Smyrna Beach Florida

Ready for a Ponce Lighthouse adventure near New Smyrna Beach? Step back in time and climb 175 feet of fun in the Florida sun at the Ponce Inlet Light Station and Museum! Constructed in 1887, the Ponce de Leon Inlet Lighthouse has guided mariners along the Florida coast for more than 130 years.

17 Stories High

Standing 175 feet tall ,the Ponce Inlet Lighthouse is the tallest in Florida and one of the tallest in the US ( (the Cape Hatteras Light in North Carolina is taller at 207 feet). That is the equivalent of 17 stories high. Workers stacked 1.25 million bricks and an 8 feet thick wall at its base.

213 Steps

Not for the fainthearted or bad knees, climbing the lighthouse is no joke! The stairwell spirals up 213 steps (which are steep) with 9 landings to rest and read interesting historic information and see lighthouse artifacts. But the view at the top are worth it - breathtaking.

Enjoy the video of Ponce Lighthouse with its beautiful coastal backdrop below. This view is facing south with the Atlantic Ocean on the left, the Ponce Inlet and New Smyrna Beach directly behind it, and the intracoastal waterway (Indian River) on the right.

http://poncelighthouse.zsite.info/z/-vf.0.0.0.18.DB169BF567E34DBF1853365EABC8BEBDEA1229F9E0C2D791D3E7E089CF4265DF

Lighthouse's Many Uses

Divers swim on the shipwreck Spiegel Grove Tuesday, July 12, 2005, of Key Largo, Fla., in the Florida Keys National Marine Sanctuary. Since it was fully sunk on June 10, 2002, the decommissioned Navy Landing Ship Dock has rested on its starboard side. But Monday, July 11, 2005, divers discovered the ship had rolled upright, apparently courtesy of waves spawned by Hurricane Dennis off the southeast coast of Cuba, according to a National Weather Service official. The ship is the largest in the world ever scuttled to become an artificial reef. NO SALES (Photo by Fraser Nivens/Florida Keys News Bureau/HO)

Prevent shipwrecks. Florida is home to many famous shipwrecks. Hundreds of Spanish sailors and would-be colonists and millions of dollars of gold, silver, and jewels being transported from South America back to Spain have sunk in the waters off of Florida.

Navigate. The Coast Guard assumed operation of the Lighthouse around 1939 and installed a radio navigational beacon. Ships use the Ponce signal plus signals from Jacksonville and Cape Canaveral to fix their positions relative to the Florida coast and to prepare to navigate around the dangerous Hetzel Shoal near Canaveral.

Wartime Defense. During World War II, the lighthouse tower was used as a spotting station for enemy aircraft and off-shore vessels. The Light Station was a Coast Guard training center and barracks during the War. There is a permanent exhibit of artifacts and information concerning the Coast Guard and the Light Station in World War II. The Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, changed life for everyone in America, including Ponce Inlet. On December 12, the light station was closed to the public, and unauthorized persons were not allowed on the beach. (Eventually, civilian guards would be stationed to check every car that crossed the bridges onto the peninsula.) The two keepers at the lighthouse were ordered to stand eight hour watches to spot possible enemy activity, and on December 29th, the Coast Guard decided to require round-the-clock watches.

Stephen Crane and the Ponce Lighthouse

In 1897, American author Stephen Crane, working as an undercover correspondent for the New York Post, joins a gun-running expedition to Cuba aboard the steam tug Commodore. Their goal is to reach Cuba with supplies to aid the rebellion against Spanish rule of the island. The morning after her departure from Jacksonville, the ship sinks about 12 miles off Daytona. Survivors credit the beacon from the lighthouse at Mosquito Inlet for giving them the direction in which to row their small boats. Eight men die in the sinking, but Stephen Crane survives and writes his famous short story, "The Open Boat."

17 Mile Lighthouse Beacon via Fresnel Lens

The Ayres Davies Lens Exhibit Building at the Ponce Lighthouse Museum contains the restored original 1st order rotating Fresnel lens along with exhibits on the history of lighthouse illumination, and a truly stunning collection of lenses and lanterns.

The original lamp burned kerosene; in 1909 it was replaced with an incandescent oil vapor lamp. In 1933, the lighthouse beacon was electrified in 1933 with a 500-watt lamp and the original, 1st order rotating Fresnel lens was replaced with a 3rd order rotating Fresnel lens. The fresnel lens blinks its beams 17 nautical miles away!

History of Lighthouse Lenses

One of the seven wonders of the Ancient World, the great lighthouse of Alexandria, built around 280 B.C., towered some 450 feet above Egypt's greatest harbor. At that height, it was the second tallest structure in the world, after another of the seven — the Great Pyramid of Giza. The light within, also state of the art, was an open flame.

From that time until the 18th century, the lights that warned ships that they were approaching land improved hardly at all. Some burned coal. Others stuck with wood. Oil lamps backed by mirrors eventually offered a bit more candlepower. Still, every coastline in the world remained littered with the ribs of broken ships whose captains didn't see the lighthouse until it was too late. Then, in 1822, a frail scientist with a passion for optics made a revolutionary breakthrough. His name was Augustin Jean Fresnel. Read more: https://www.smithsonianmag.com/science-nature/science-makes-a-better-lighthouse-lens-

As a child, Fresnel was a slow learner who showed little interest in language studies or in tests of memory. By the age of 8, he could barely read. Yet his boyhood friends, for whom he studiously determined how to increase the power of popguns and bows, called him "the genius." When applied to optics, his genius proved to be real and considerable. Where others had improved existing lighthouse technology, Fresnel leapt forward by studying the behavior of light itself. His studies both advanced the understanding of the nature of light and produced the most important breakthrough in lighthouse lights in 2,000 years.

Fresnel worked out a number of formulas to calculate the way light changes direction, or refracts, while passing through glass prisms. Working with some of the most advanced glassmakers of the day, he produced a combination of prism shapes that together made up a lens. The Fresnel lighthouse lens used a large lamp at the focal plane as its light source. It also contained a central panel of magnifying glasses surrounded above and below by concentric rings of prisms and mirrors, all angled to gather light, intensify it and project it outward.

The various reflector systems installed in lighthouses during the 40 years preceding the introduction of the 1822 Fresnel lens certainly had been improvements over the open fires or candles in lantern rooms. Still, they could trap only a small percentage of the light. All prior systems paled by comparison with the Fresnel lens. Read more: https://www.smithsonianmag.com/science-nature/science-makes-a-better-lighthouse-lens-170677431/

The Museum has something for everyone

The Ponce DeLeon Inlet Lighthouse Museum campus includes the lighthouse, a Museum and Gift shop, a Cuban raft exhibit, a Video Theatre, a giant old galleon anchor, the First Assistant and Second Assistant Keeper's Dwellings, the Lens Exhibit Building, and the 1000 lb US Lighthouse Service Fog Bell.

Children and adults will all enjoy the museum and lighthouse. Interesting unique history, optical science, beautiful coastal setting, The Gift Shop is full of unique books, art, and of course gifts - you could easily enjoy browsing there for an hour. Visitors should plan for at least a half a day. The local area also has a few waterfront marinas and seafood hangouts, fishing charters, water sports as well as a nature preserve, Lighthouse Point Park with beach, and a Marine Science Center.

Your Ponce Lighthouse adventure near New Smyrna Beach is about 30 minutes from our condo. We travel north up Route 1 to the first intracoastal bridge in Daytona Beach which is Dunlawton Blvd. Then turn right on South Atlantic Avenue to the end of end of the island!

4931 S. Peninsula Drive Ponce Inlet, FL 32127 (386) 761-1821

Hours of Operation

Sept. 3, 2019 – May 24, 2020 Open Daily, 10:00 AM to 6:00 PM (Last Admission at 5:00 PM)

#beach #Florida #Holiday In NewSmyrnaBeach #NewSmyrnaBeach #Vacation In New Smyrna Beach #VacationSoup #whattosee

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supersleepygoat · 6 years ago

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Glass Houses: Part Two

Pairing: Sam x Sister!Reader, MOC!Dean x Sister!Reader, Styne Family

Summary: After you left the bunker, you take on a few case. You get some experience under you belt but let overconfidence lead you into a dangerous situation that would be better left for your brothers. Set in Dark Dynasty (10.21).

Word Count: 6,042

Warning: Angst. Violence. Mention of Character Death. TW: Mentions of Rape. Nonconsensual Blood Play. Nonconsensual Knife Play. (No Explicit Smut)

Part One

Masterlist

You had just gotten off the phone with your boyfriend, Nathan. You had left the bunker and pulled off to the side of the road. You needed to talk to him. Talking to him always puts you at ease. But as soon as you hang up the phone, that ease morphs into dread.

You curse yourself for being unable to let him go. It is selfish and you know it. He will always be in danger as long as he is in your life. But you love him. In a different world, you know without a doubt he would be your end game. He would be the one to save you. He would give you the apple pie life you know you should want. But that’s not who you are. You will never be the girl who could walk away from her family to start a new one.

No matter how your brothers make you feel about yourself, Nate always grounds you. He tells you how special and capable he thinks you are. And for a moment, you believe him. So, in a perfect world, he would be who you are driving to right now. But, instead you are headed out of town and seeking out danger. You are a Winchester. There is no apple pie life waiting for you. Everyone knows how the game really ends for a Winchester.

As much as it killed you, you had to lie to Nate. You had to tell him your brothers took you out of town and you’d be gone for a while. You know you have to end it with him when you get back. But you don’t have the strength to burn that bridge right now. That bridge holds a view of hope, so you’re not ready to watch it burn quite yet.

Besides, Nate deserves for you to explain yourself in person. But if you show up now with this bruise on your cheek, he’ll only go on a testosterone induced rampage. He has always hated the fact your brothers push you aside. He hates that they treat you like a second-class Winchester. So, if you tell him things have escalated to a physical level, he’ll only see red. He won’t listen to a word you say. And, you need him to hear you. He needs to understand that he will always be the best thing that ever happened to you.

But, your destiny is to pursue the family business. Whether your brothers like it or not, for you there is no getting out of this life. You want to fight alongside your brothers. It’s what you’ve always wanted. So, it’s not safe for Nate to be attached to you or this life. You need to let him go before he ends up like Jessica or Lisa. He deserves better than the danger that comes with being with you. He deserves better than you.

You started small. You left your brothers only three weeks ago but you already have two solo cases under your belt.

The first was a simple salt and burn. Unfortunately, the ghost’s human body had been cremated. But, it wasn’t hard to figure out that the jilted lover’s spirit was tied to her wedding ring. Her unfaithful husband still wore it on a chain around his neck. Little did he know, he was carrying around a beacon for pain. You burnt the tarnish silver symbol and moved on.

The second case was a step up. Your first demon. You didn’t have the demon knife or an angel blade so you had to rely on an good old-fashioned exorcism to get rid of the thing. It worked out because you were able to save the meat suit, or Shannon as she preferred to be called. She was shaken up but grateful you were able to spare her.

After you prove your point and you return home to your brothers, you may have a talk with them. You will remind them that they tend to forget that the meat suits are really people. They use the demon knife and angel blade as if the quick solution is the only solution. But there is another way. Maybe they could learn something from their useless baby sister after all.

You are running on a string of highs. Are you getting a bit cocky? Perhaps, but you feel as though you are finally doing something useful with your life. You are no longer waiting at home for your brothers to get back from a hunt. You are no longer living vicariously through their stories of heroism. You are the one who is living now. You are the one making a difference.

You know what you’re doing is dangerous. If you had a clear mind, you would realize your luck is bound to wear out eventually. But you are misguided by the illusion that Winchesters always come out on top. You are starting to feel untouchable. If your brothers were here, they would be able to teach you that arrogance is a leading cause of death among hunters. But, they aren’t here. That is lesson you will have to learn for yourself.

One more. You decided one more hunt will do the trick. If you can close three cases all on your own, your brothers will have no choice. They will have to acknowledge that you are a capable hunter. You have enjoyed being on your own but it’s gotten a little lonely.

The whole reason you wanted to start hunting was so you could spend more time with your brothers. You want them to include you in their lives. You don’t want to hunt just for the sake of hunting. This little trial period of solo hunts is merely a means to an end. The end goal will always be to be accepted by your brothers. You are doing this so you can fight with them, not against them.

You may want their love and approval, but that doesn’t mean you’re not still pissed at them, especially Dean. But like any other set of siblings, your best revenge will be to make them feel like shit for ever doubting you. You can’t wait to stroll back into the bunker and throw Baby’s keys back at Dean. He’ll see you were responsible enough to take good care of his favourite girl. There’s not a scratch on her. Then, you’ll tell them every gory detail of your hunts. They’ll realize just how much of a badass you are.

They’ll be mad, Dean may even kick your ass again. But they’ll be proud of you, they have to be. But if they are still unwilling to acknowledge you, then at the very least you have proven to yourself that you are a legitimate hunter. You will just continue going at it alone until they let you in. You won’t give up.

For your last case, you found something a little odd. It’s not a classic monster like a ghost or a vampire. But rather, it is something that is just too gross to not be your kind of case. You going to prove that you can handle even the weird cases.

So, you’re headed to Omaha, Nebraska. A woman was reported to have her throat slit and her eyes gouged out. Not to mention, the guy who done it jumped out of a third story window and ran away without so much as a limp. Definitely your kind of weird.

Your best guess is that he may be another Doc Benton. Sam and Dean told you all about that creep. Plus, you read about someone like him in your dad’s journal. These types of monsters were once human. But they harvest the organs of young and healthy people to remain immortal. You assume that’s why he only took the victim’s eyes. Luckily, John’s journal told you that if you burn them alive, they will stay dead.

You were in a nearby town when you caught the case. It didn’t take long to drive to the scene. By the time you and Baby pulled up to the office building, the victim’s body was still inside. The janitor who found the girl and saw the killer’s great escape wasn’t very helpful. He was too shaken up to tell you anything more than what you heard over the police radio.

The building manager shows you security footage of the man’s three-story jump. Either than the fact he walked away without even a scratch, there was nothing out of the ordinary about the man. He looked human. But you know looks can be deceiving in this line of work. At least now you know his face. You know who you are looking for.

The manager gives you all the information he has on his murderous renter. You know it is all probably fake names and bogus addresses, but you have to start somewhere.

“More FBI?” The building’s landlord asks Sam and Dean as they each flash their badge.

“What do you mean more?” Dean asks with slight irritation. He hates when the real feds intrude on their cases. They always get territorial over their jurisdiction. Dean doesn’t have the patience right now to get into a pissing contest. He has a job to do and prefers to do it without interference.

“Yeah, an Agent Hart was here yesterday. That girl looked like she was barely out of diapers. You guys are recruiting them young now, aren’t ya?” The man asks.

Sam and Dean share a knowing look. Sam’s eyes widen as Dean’s narrows. You always used to babble about what fake FBI names you would use. Agent Hart was always at the top of your list. The brothers lost count of how many times you made them watch Miss Congeniality. So, they would know that name anywhere.

“Is this her?” Dean asks while showing the man a picture of you on his phone. The picture is of you sitting on Dean’s lap while you force him to smile for the camera.

“Yep. That’s her,” The land lord confirms. “You two close? Luck man,” he gives Dean a coy smile.

Dean does not return that slimy smirk. Instead, he clenches his jaw and holds himself back from punching the man. He hates the idea of anyone sexualizing his baby sister. You’re better than that.

Sam reads Dean’s reaction and steps between the two men. “Did she leave a phone number for you to reach her?” Sam asks with hope in his voice.

“Uh, yeah” the man says while he searches his wallet for your card. When he goes to hand it to Sam, Dean reaches over and snatches it away. Dean is about to leave the room when the man interrupts him. “Don’t you want to see what I showed her?” He asks reminding the agents why they were there in the first place.

The brothers crowd around the man’s tablet. He plays the security footage of the perp’s miraculous escape.

“Wait, freeze there. Zoom in,” Sam directs. The footage clearly shows the man is sporting a distinctive tattoo on his right forearm.

“Same ink as the Styne’s,” Dean says what both brothers are thinking.

In a panic, Sam pulls Dean away from the other man’s earshot. “Dean, if this is the Stynes, and Y/N is working this case, then she doesn’t know what she’s walking into. She left the bunker before Charlie called us about the Book of the Damned! She doesn’t know anything about what the Stynes are capable of or how hard they are to kill!” Sam informs his brother.

Dean’s teeth grind together. Before Sam can blink, Dean’s fist collides with the nearest piece of drywall. He shakes his now bloodied knuckles. “Son of a bitch!”

Sam looks back at the horrified landlord. “You can send the bill for repairs to head office,” Sam says with a sheepish smile. He hurries his brother out of the room before Dean snaps again.

Dean pushes his brother’s guiding hand off of him. “We need to find her, Sammy! Now!” Dean barks.

Over the past few weeks, Dean’s sole focus has been on finding you. However, Sam has split his attention between finding you and trying to find a way to remove Dean’s mark. But now, his missions have collided. Now more than ever, both brothers are feeling the urgency. You have no idea what you have gotten yourself into.

Dean and Sam get into the crappy car they have been forced to use since your departure. Dean slams the door shut behind him. “How could she be so stupid? I raised her better than this. She knows better than to…” Dean is too infuriated to finish his train of thought. You’re going to get yourself killed trying to prove a point to your brothers. The fear inside of Dean is morphing into uncontrollable anger. “I am going to kill all those Frankenstein sons of bitches if they so much as lay a finger one her!” Dean grips the wheel and peels out of the parking lot.

“Agent Hart,” you greet into the receiver of your phone. You love pretending to be professional.

“Y/N?” You hear Sam’s soft voice and your stomach drops.

“S-Sam?”

You hear shuffling on the other end of the phone. The next voice you hear makes you heart stop. You thought you were over it. You told yourself you that what Dean said and did to you was driven by the mark. That wasn’t your brother. You thought you were over it. But even hearing his hardened voice makes fearful tears pool in your eyes. Your bruises have long since healed but all the sudden you can feel your cheek sting again right where he hit you.

“Where the fuck are you?” Dean growls at you. Your eyes widen. You knew he would be mad that your left. You knew he would be pissed about you taking Baby. But, you thought his rage would have eased in the three weeks he has had to cool down. “You know what, it doesn’t matter,” Dean stops you before you can respond. “Get your ass back to the bunker, now! You have no idea what you’re dealing with, kid!”

Your anger rises to match Dean’s. He still refuses to acknowledge you. He still insists on treating you like a child. Apparently, you still have something to prove. You’ll take care of this weirdo all on your own. Then, you’ll rub it in his condescending face.

“I know exactly what I’m dealing with! A freak who has been harvesting people’s organs so he can live longer. I even know his name, Eldon Styne. Plus, I know where to find him,” you inform your brothers. You’re proud of all the information you have been able to dig up in such a short time. This guy left more a paper trail than you were expecting. He’s kind of sloppy.

“No, Y/N! Don’t you dare! It’s more than that! That ‘freak’ and his family aren’t something you can take on alone! These aren’t amateurs you’re dealing with, Y/N. So, they can’t be taken down by an amateur!”

In Dean’s misguided mind, he thinks he actually doing a good job in convincing you to back down. But, all he is doing is riling you up. Before, you had something to prove. Now, you feel like closing this case out of spite.

“I can do this! I may be new at this but I’m not an idiot. I am careful and I am capable. Back off, Dean!” You bite at your brother before hanging up on him. As if beating you down wasn’t enough. He always has to pour salt into your wounds by making you feel inferior.

You turn your phone off and pull out the battery. You have a long drive a head of you. You don’t need your phone ringing incessantly. Nor do you need your brothers tracking you down through GPS. You pull the map out of Baby’s glove compartment and find your route to Shreveport, Louisiana.

“Here’s how you redeem yourself. First, clean up your mess in Omaha. Next, you will track down these Winchesters who murdered your brother Jacob and who may now have in their possession the Book of the Damned” Monroe Styne instructs his son.

“It will be done,” Eldon responds with fearful obedience. He knows his father is not one to make idle threats. If he fails to deliver again, he will lose his position as heir and will become the family lab rat.

Eldon and his goons leave his father office on a mission.

Just then, you pull up to the cute yellow house. The mouldings scream southern charm. But the two armed men guarding the front door, tells you that you are exactly where you need to be. You did a little research on the Styne family. Their history isn’t as developed as you first assumed it would be. They seemed to have popped up in the 1800s out of nowhere and have been causing trouble ever since. If you had access to the bunkers library, you may have been able to learn more. But for now, all you need to know is that they kill people to harvest their body parts. Which means they fall under your jurisdiction.

You sneak around to the back porch and slip into the house through the kitchen. You are armed to the teeth. But so far no one has gotten in your way.

The further you slip into the house, the faster your heart starts to race. You see a group of men discussing something in the hall in front of you. To stay hidden, you slip into what you think is an empty room.

You close the door behind you. You jump out of your skin when you hear a throat clear from across the room. You raise your gun and point it in the direction of the sound.

The man looking down your barrel doesn’t seem phased in the least.

“And who might you be?” Monroe asks you with a curious smile. His southern drawl would be charming if he didn’t look like evil incarnate.

“I’m the girl who’s going to kill you,” you inform him. You try to match his threatening persona but can’t help but feel like you’re failing miserably.

Monroe laughs a genuine laugh. He gets out of his seat. “Drink?” He raises a pitcher of sweet tea in your direction.

You narrow your eyes at him in confusion. You’re not in the mood for small talk. So, you pull your trigger you land a shot straight in his heart. He doesn’t fall. He barely even flinches.

The gun shot didn’t kill him. But, it did alert the house to your presence. Within minutes, the door is kicked open and all the men from the hall barge into the room. Every shot you land hits their mark dead on but these men do not fall. It is as if the bullets barley leaves a sting.

It doesn’t take long for you to be surrounded. Your gun is kicked out of your hand and you are stripped of all your weapons, except they never find the knife in your boot. You are pushed onto your knees as your own gun is pointed at your head. You recognize the man holding you down as the man from the video, Eldon.

“Shall we try this one more time, girly? Who are you?” the grey-haired man asks you again.

You debate your options. Sassing him will only get you killed faster. So, you decide to try a little honesty. “Y/N Winchester. And I’m guessing you’re the patriarch of this little band of killers. You must be so proud,” you feign a smile up at the man. You told yourself you weren’t going to sass the man with a gun to your head but you just couldn’t help yourself.

“I have my moments. But tell me darling’, Winchester? Any relation to Sam and Dean?” the older man asks you.

You shift on your knees. “Y-You know my brothers?” You hate how shaky your voice comes out. But you’re starting to realize Dean may have been right. He may have warned you about this family for reason. You thought he was just being an asshole who thought you couldn’t handle any situation. But you’re starting to understand he was referring to this specific situation as being above your paygrade.

“They killed my eldest boy,” all charm is gone from Monroe’s voice. He steps forward so he is towering over your kneeling and helpless form. His lips fall into a hard line. He contemplates what to do with you. You can see his wheels turning against your favour. He is no doubt imagining the most painful way to kill you or which parts of you to harvest. That thought makes a shiver run down your spine.

“Daddy, the girl may be useful.” Eldon interrupts his father when he sees the murderous glint in his eyes. “If she really is their sister, I think they’d be willing to make a trade. We give them her and they give us the book. Those Winchesters seem just stupid enough to think it would be a fair trade.” Eldon offers a solution.

Monroe considers his options for a moment. “No,” he states with finality. “We do not barter with animals. That is beneath us. We will get the book back on our own terms. They stole from us and we shall not negotiate.”

“Then what are we to do with this one?” Eldon nudges you with his knee and you stumble off balance.

“She is a Winchester. You know as well as I do the power of Winchester blood. The Winchester lineage is a lot like ours in many ways, special.”

“So, what do you want to do, bleed her out?” Eldon asks slightly confused.

Now you think is a good time to clarify a few things. “I am only their half-sister! I don’t have any of that special sauce you are talking about. I’m just a-” a firm back handed slap across your cheek cuts you off.

“Don’t be stupid, boy. Think bigger. She may only be a half breed Winchester but she is still a Winchester. And Winchester blood will mix well with our own. It will add a certain potency to our linage. Strengthen the family tree so to speak. I’ll tell you what, we’ll make a deal. Cousin Eli seems to think you are incapable of handling your assignment on your own,” Monroe addresses his son. “prove him wrong. Kill that little redheaded who stole my book and I’ll give you the girl as a reward. She can be yours.”

“To do what with, exactly?” There is a glint of hope in Eldon voice that makes you shudder. But Eldon needs to clarify his father’s meaning before he lets his hopes run wild.

“You expect me to spell it out for you! You are my son and heir! That means you too will need an heir one day. Breed your new bitch. I don’t care how it happens. Marry her or simply lock her up in the basement and breed her when she’s at peak fertility. Like I said, I don’t care. But, you will mix our bloodlines.”

“Yes, Daddy!” Eldon beams with excitement. He reaches down to pick your stupefied body off the ground but Monroe slaps the back of his head to stop him.

“What the hell you doing, son?” Monroe shouts. “I said she is you reward for you fulfilling your duties! You have already disappointed me today. You have not earned your reward yet. You don’t get her until the job is done. And, if you fail… she will go to the man who can follow orders.” Monroe’s eye travels from his son over to his nephew Eli. A little familial completion is guaranteed to get the job done, especially since the incentive to succeed is so sweet. “You boys better get going. But leave her with me.” Monroe turns his attention to you. “We have some things to discuss. She will be well prepped in her expectations for your return.”

You are pulled off the ground. The feeling of someone touching you pulls you out of your shocked state. You fight against their manhandling with all the strength you have. But they drag you along like your violent efforts mean nothing. You are knocked around like a ragdoll. You can’t help but feel the same way you did at the bunker. Dean kept knocking you down so easily. You should have listened to him when he told you that you weren’t ready, you weren’t strong enough. Now, your overconfidence in your own abilities has condemned you to a nightmare.

Eldon tries to strap you to a wooden chair but your limbs refuse to comply. You scratch at his face and make his job as difficult as possible.

“Control your broodmare! If you cannot handle her now, how can I trust you to handle the breeding process?” Monroe shouts at his son.

Your eyes widen in fear but a full fisted punch to your temple knocks the fear out of you. Your mind goes hazy and your muscles go limp just long enough for Eldon to tie you down. You are brought back to reality when he leans in and kisses your temple. He puts his lips right over where his fist just landed. “I promise not to mark up your face anymore after this. It was just this once. But don’t think that the rest of you isn’t fair game,” he smiles against your skin. You pull on your restraints as tears pool in our eyes.

“Enough! Get to work. She’ll be waiting here for your successful return. Do not come back without that redhead’s blood on your sword,” Monroe threatens his son one last time.

Eldon nods and leaves the room without another word.

The throbbing in your head is dulled by the disgust bubbling within you. “If you know my brothers, then you know they will kill you. They’ll find out I’m here one way or another. Then, you are all dead!” You spit your venom at the patriarch. You hate the idea that you are relying on your brothers to save you. You want to save yourself. But right now, that isn’t an option. You only hope you didn’t cover your tracks as well as you thought you did and Sam and Dean find you before it’s too late.

“Time for a history lesson, girly.” Monroe says ignoring your every threat. “By the time school is out of session, you will understand the full power of my family… excuse my rudeness, our family.” He offers you a wicked smile. “We have been funding destruction for centuries. We cannot be taken down by the likes of your brothers. So, you may as well settle in. You are one of us now, sweetheart.”

“I will never be a part of your twisted family! You can take your egomaniacal self-indulgence and shove it up your-” a firm hand closes over your throat and blocks your words from coming out.

“This is a goddamn privilege! Baring Styne children is a gift. You will be grateful or will not like what happens next!” The pure rage in his eyes is more threatening than his words.

The forceful hold over your throat is causing your vison to blacken. Monroe loosens his grip and stands up straight. He walks back over to his desk and takes a seat. All he does is stare at you while he waits for you to choke the air back into your lungs.

“You finished? We have a lot of ground to cover.” Monroe says as he leans forward in his chair and interlocks his fingers.

After your family history lesson, you were left to sit alone in Monroe’s office. He didn’t seem to have an issue leaving you alone. He says he trusts his new daughter to behave then left. It feels like you have been sitting here for days on end. Although the agonizing cuckoo clock on the wall tells you it has only been a few of hours. You struggle against your restraints to reach the knife still in your boot but the ropes are too tight. You have to wait until someone comes to untie you.

The hours tick by but no one comes for you. No one comes to feed you or let you go to the bathroom. Exhaustion takes you over and you drift to sleep. You don’t know how long you were out for but you are awoken to the study door bursting open. You jolt awake and try to ready yourself for a fight, but then you remember you are strapped to a chair.

To your surprise, it isn’t Monroe but rather Eldon who comes through the door. He drops his bloodied knife onto his father’s desk. He turns to you with a triumphant smile. “I held up my end of the bargain. Father says I can play for a while before I go find your brothers. He says it is important to reward small victories. It prompts motivation for further success.”

He takes a step toward you. “Touch me and I will rip your lungs out!” you threaten the man using Dean’s best line.

Eldon clenches his jaw before crossing the room and punching you in the stomach. If you weren’t restrained you would have doubled over in pain. He is a man of his word, you have to give him that. He didn’t touch your face.

“I thought Father taught you your place here, bitch? You don’t get a say in what happens to you. Your body is mine and your womb belong to our family now. Get in line or I’ll have to put you there,” Eldon threatens you. “I earned you. I am entitled to my reward,” he says as if you are bartering over gold stickers and not your body.

“You didn’t earn shit! Your father is not in charge of when I spread my legs! You can go fuck yourself but leave me out of it!” You spit at the man in front of you.

“You got a mouth on you, girl. No wonder your brothers sent you into the lion’s den all on your own. They were probably itching to get rid of you and that smart lip. I am probably doing them a service taking you off their hands and putting that tongue to better use.”

Before you can correct him, Eldon lunges forward and claims your mouth in bruising kiss. You struggle against your restraints and try to jerk your head away. But a firm hand grasps your hair and holds you in place. You bite his intruding tongue but that earns you another punch to the stomach.

Eldon pushes away from you and walks back over to his father’s desk. He picks up his bloodied and discarded knife before coming back over to you.

“Do you know whose blood this is?” He asks you as he crouches down to your eye level.

You shake your head because your swollen lips are too afraid to part.

“I believe you know her. Apparently, she is a family friend of you Winchesters.” Eldon licks some of the blood off his knife and your cringe with disgust. “Charlene… Caroline…” Eldon struggles to remember her name.

“C-Charlie?” you squeak with utter dread.

Eldon’s wicked smile of affirmation is his only response. You heart drops into your stomach as violent tears stream down your cheeks. You had no idea Charlie was the redhead they were talking about earlier. Why didn’t you make that connection? Why didn’t you kill them when you had the chance? Now, Charlie is dead because you couldn’t handle them on your own. She is dead because of you.

Your head is hung low but Eldon hooks his finger under your chin. Your watering eyes meet his empty ones. He licks his blade again. Then, he kisses you again. You can taste Charlie’s blood on his tongue and you sob into his mouth.

He cuts you free of your restraints and throws you over his shoulder. You kick against him and let out a string of curses as he carries up the stairs to his bedroom. He locks the door behind him then throws you onto his bed.

“Strip,” to him it is such a simple demand.

You start by taking off your boot. The second it is off your foot you reach inside the lining and pull out your knife. You swipe it across his face and leave a nasty gash. He doesn’t even wince.

There is no pain in his eyes, only rage. He grasps your wrists and bends it back until the bone snaps and you let go of your little knife. You whimper in pain but he pays you no mind. He picks up your knife and pushes you onto your back. He hovers in over you and holds the knife to your throat.

“Kiss it better,” he orders you. When you refuse to move he presses the knife into your skin until it draws blood. You debate whether you should let him kill you, it would be better than being his bitch. But, you know he won’t let you off that easy.

You lean forward and kiss his cheek, right above the bloody cut you left there. That simple act causes bile to rise in your throat.

“I’m sure you can do better than that. Let me show you how it’s done,” Eldon says as he takes the knife and cuts along your collarbone. A line of blood appears and you bite back your cries of pain. He lowers his mouth onto you wound. He sucks and kisses the cut until there is no more blood dripping down your chest. “Just like that,” he says when he’s finished. “Your turn!” he leans his cheek closer to you.

You refuse to reciprocate.

He clenches his jaw. “Fine then. I guess I’ll just have to keep going until you get the memo.” He rips open your shirt and starts cutting into the skin along your chest and stomach. You writhe in pain as it is a never-ending pattern of cutting and sucking. He holds you down with his inhuman strength and forces you to endure his confusing torture. The knife hurts but his lips heal.

His trail ends at the hem of your jeans. But soon he takes them off you and cuts your panties off you too. You have been naked in front of a man before but you have never felt so exposed. He keeps your legs spread as he places the cold blade against your core.

“Please don’t,” you beg him through the tears. You are starting to realize just how bad he could make this.

“Shh, baby girl.” He crawls back up your body. “I would never cut you there… unless you asked me nicely. No, I plan on ruining your pretty little pussy in a different way.” He smiles at you and you hear him unbuckle his slacks.

You kick, punch, scream, and beg. But you are no match for him. You have a broken wrist and mere human strength. He will have his way, whether you like it or not.

He takes you. You try to close your eyes and pretend it is Nate splitting you open but Eldon forces you keep your eyes open. He wants you to watch as he lays his claim. He owns you now and each brutal thrust seals the deal. You push Nate out of your mind.

Soon the Styne’s seed will paint your walls. You stopped fighting him. You figure this is your punishment for being unable to prevent Charlie’s death. You deserve all the pain, violation, and humiliation.

At some point during the night, you stopped wishing your brothers would find you. You don’t want them to see how quickly you broke, how quickly you crumbled under Eldon’s forceful hand. You don’t want them to see how weak you are.

You don’t want them to say I told you so.

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theradioghost · 7 years ago

Note

If the cast of Wolf 359 were gods what would they be the gods of?

ooooooh! this is a good one.

Eiffel: I’ve recently been reading the very good A Madness of Angels: or, the Resurrection of Matthew Swift, an urban fantasy novel about a sorcerer who has come back from death after merging symbiotically with the entities known as “the blue electric angels.” the angels are a young god, the spirit of every emotion and idea and word that has ever passed through the telephone wires, through radio waves, off satellites. they’ve come into life new, without memories or experiences, finding joy in movies and games and food and experiences and their connection to Matthew. tldr: if post-canon Eiffel was a god, I think the blue electric angels are exactly what he’d be. innumerable fragments of knowledge and emotion and voices that don’t belong to you, too loud and too many for the body they live in, childish and explosive and yet beautiful in the innocent and loving joy they take in the world.

Minkowski: the goddess-queen of huntresses, proud and sure. she knows the ways through every hunting ground by heart, knows the rules of the game she plays, honors laws older than memory and writes her own by living them. sometimes she hunts alone, but most often she is seen at the head of her pack, a family whom she has joined together in the process of her relentless pursuit. no one will take her freedom from her; no one will harm those she takes into her protection.

Hera: what do you call someone who can see so much and be so painfully aware of how little of it she understands? a goddess of Knowing -- not wisdom, dignified and certain, but the process of understanding, of finding, of wondering and questioning. there is no end to that process, no ultimate answer; and she is not a goddess to ask for such an answer. rather, what she oversees is the perpetual journey there. not enlightenment, but the joyous search; the knowledge that you will never see everything, never understand what you do see, but that the universe is so unimaginably beautiful, and the people in it both so small and so beautifully, perfectly infinite, that you could never wish for anything more than to keep knowing and learning forever.

Hilbert and Lovelace: I’m going to do something that would royally piss off them both, and say that both of them would be gods of Persistence. of survival.

Hilbert survives, even when he has no right. he crawls out of the wreckage and he becomes stronger, more clever, ever harder to kill. he isn’t the smartest one, isn’t the most powerful, never rises to the top, but his strength is in always being there, always pressing towards his goal no matter what you do. he is a fixed point, an immovable object, a constant presence. you can argue morality with him all you want, refuse him, try to destroy him; but sooner or later, in his utter conviction of his righteousness, he will pin you down where he wants you.

Lovelace survives, even if she has to die first. she is persistence as resurrection, persistence as a fiery beacon of righteous rage, persistence as justice. she was remade by people who, like Hilbert, would use her for their own gain; but she dug her heels in and refused, and became a goddess in her own right. she is a compass star, an unstoppable force. you can kill her, you can hurt her, you can do what you will; but she will come back, and she will find you, and in the utter conviction of her righteousness, she will make sure you never do any of those things to anyone else again.

they aren’t the same; make no mistake of that. but it’s no coincidence that they manage to find one another again and again and again.

Kepler: the god of tongues; what else? a poet, a liar, a ceaseless talker. a god whose words can twist and mold the world around him, the people around him, the paths they walk, without anyone even noticing. he speaks innumerable languages, says innumerable things, all of them lies; there’s no truth underneath, no inherent him. it’s been a long time since he was anything more than words, anything more than a job, a title, a name. he prefers it this way, makes the world what he wants it, lies becoming truths as they slip between his lips like whiskey, because the very act of speaking makes them so.

Jacobi: fire; no more and no less, only exactly what he is. fire that can save your life, that can warm you with a friendly smile and a kind gesture; and which can then, without any change in its nature, without being anything but what it always was, consume a life, a body, a city, with sparks and biting tongues. it isn’t self-contradictory, it isn’t disobedient; handled right, it can create or it can destroy. it obeys no morality or laws but its own.

Maxwell: no one knows quite what she is the goddess of, although there are many who claim they do -- of crossroads, they say, of choices, or change, of growth. she makes things into other things, takes numbers and spins them into life, takes people and spins them into new shapes, kills and creates as she pleases. some even say she’s death, although not a goddess of the other side; rather, of the moment between, when you slip from one thing into something else. only the foolish call her good or evil; she is more than that, a sense of striving, a power always in the space between spaces, moving into something new, the way everything in the universe always will. she is always one step ahead of our ability to grasp her, always just out of touch of what we can understand, a being always moving into something more than human.

Cutter: a chess-player, a planner. not like the god of Death who sits to gamble with you, or like the tricksters who always have a way to win. More like Terry Pratchett’s version of Fate -- a god who thinks he always has the winning hand, and always would, if not for his rival Lady Luck, and her fondness for those odd, persistent folks who crop up every now and then and make a scene by saying no.

Pryce: a long time ago, a goddess of life molded humanity out of the clay, filled them with breath, and set them walking. the young goddess born among them was not a creatrix, not a builder, not even a god at the start, but she knew one day she could be. and she knew she could do better. once you’re ready, all it takes is a flood across the earth, a war amongst the clouds, and the old gods are dead, and the world is yours to remake as you see fit. if you dislike your visions of the future, make yourself new eyes. if you dislike your gods, eat their bones, and make your own. just be careful that they don’t start to remake themselves, too.

#wolf 359 #SORRY THIS TOOK LIKE AN HOUR I GOT TOO INTO IT #tragic space office sitcom #headcanon jams #Anonymous #asks #my posts

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green-eyeddragonfanfiction · 7 years ago

Text

From Grace I

Pairing: Demon!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader Summary: You’re part of the prestigious multi-national military group SHIELD. However, you’re sent on a mission that quickly goes south. With no hope of escape and no allies to help you, you send a fervent prayer out to anything and everything. What you get in response is more than you bargained for. Warnings: Swearing (always), blood, death, violence, guns, tentacles Word Count: ~2,120 A/N: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Masterlist

Next Chapter

One Year and Ten Months Ago

You stood at attention while the Colonel droned on and on about freedom and loyalty. You supposed it was a nice enough speech. It would undoubtedly inspire all the chest-pounding muscle heads in your unit, but it mostly went in one ear and out the other for you. The guest of honor was the only person you really cared about listening to today.

You fought to keep perfectly still as the Colonel announced her and stepped aside and cursed Rogers for being too damn tall to see past.

“I will keep this brief, as it’s hot and I get tired quite easily these days,” Peggy Carter said to the assembly, her voice ringing out clearly despite her old age. She commanded everyone’s attention and respect simply by existing, drawing the attention of everyone in the room in a way the Colonel hadn’t been able to. “When I helped found this special program back during World War II, I was given the name Miss Union Jack while I crusaded against Johann Schmidt, Arnim Zola, and Adolf Hitler in the 40′s. A name I carried with pride. I became more than myself under that title, a light of inspiration for the people of every Allied nation and a name whispered in fear by those who committed atrocious acts in the name of power and greed. I couldn’t have predicted how the organization I created would carry on through the years. It is my privilege to say I’m quite satisfied with the work it has done until now, and it is my sincere hope each and every one of you will continue that legacy.”

You managed to lean just far enough to the left to be able to see her in her wheelchair. She somehow managed to tower over every other person on that stage. Even from where you were standing you could see all the lines on her face. She was almost ninety-five now.

“As of today, you’re part of a prestigious international military force dedicated to the protection of innocent lives. SHIELD’s goal hasn’t changed in that regard, though the enemies we face certainly have as the years pass by. Stand tall and proud for not only being chosen to receive SHIELD training, but for having the tenacity, intelligence, and courage to complete it. Remember who and what you fight for. Be a shining beacon of humanity in a world that so badly needs it.”

She couldn’t stand anymore, but the moment she raised her right hand in a crisp salute, each and every one of the graduating class snapped to return it.

“Who are you?” She asked, voice stern and strong despite her frail body.

“We are SHIELD!” roared you and the rest of the graduating class.

“And what do you fight for?”

“The World!”

Present Day

“Fuck. Oh fuck oh god oh hell why the fuck did I ever agree to do this? ‘Join the damn army,’ they said. ‘It’ll cover your student loans and you’ll do some good while you’re at it,’ they said,” you cursed, trying your best to take deep breaths so you wouldn’t hyperventilate. “Report!” you yelled into your comm. The sounds of gunfire and explosions thundered around you. Occasionally a bullet would bite into the stone and wood nearby, sending splinters and shards rocketing every which way. Even the sounds of the war couldn’t hide that not a single person from your squad had responded.

“Maverick! Hanson! Garland! Saleh! Report!” you demanded again. You clutched your rifle to your chest and shoved your back against the wall, eyes glued to the only doorway into the room you were hiding in. The hostiles could definitely enter through the window, but you were on the second floor so it was unlikely.

When you received nothing but radio silence again you had to bite back the panic. Even if they were still out there, you were unable to communicate with them. For all intents and purposes, you were alone.

“Bravo Squad to Saturn Base, extraction requested,” you said, finally lowering your voice. You didn’t want to call every hostile with a gun within a square mile to your location if you could help it.

“Bravo Squad, this is Saturn Base. Status Report,” said the slightly staticky voice over the comm.

“There was an ambush, Saturn. Status of the rest of Bravo Squad is unknown. No responses on comms.”

There was a long pause in which you could imagine the sounds of every person in the area, though you knew your hearing had been damaged by all the explosions. It was a miracle you could hear at all.

“Approach to your location has been blocked, Bravo Squad.”

“Then send in a damn chopper,” you spat into the mic.

“Negative, Bravo Squad. You’re in the middle of a hot zone.”

“Fuck!” you swore as you tore the headset from your ear and gripped it tightly in your fist. You took a good ten seconds to swear your heart out then shoved it roughly back into your ear. “When’s backup arriving?” you asked tersely. If you could hold out for a little bit until the next squad got here, then-

“The soonest another squad can come to assist is eight hours from now, Bravo Squad,” the person on the other end of the line informed you grimly.

The sentence rattled around your head for a few seconds before your brain could finally process it. Once it did, you still didn’t quite believe it.

“Repeat, Saturn,” you said quietly.

“Romeo Squad is ten hours away,” the man repeated, just as bleakly as before.

You took a deep breath and tried to calm your thoughts, but it was a lost cause. You ripped the comm from your ear again and shoved it in your pocket. “Shit fuck son of a damn bitch.” You weren’t going to make it eight hours. Hell, you’d be lucky if you stayed alive for the next ten minutes if the sounds outside were anything to go by.

Actually, now that you thought about it, the gunfire outside had calmed down quite a bit and you hadn’t heard an explosion in at least a minute. Fuck, you were so caught up in talking to Saturn Base that you hadn’t paid enough attention to the goings on around you.

You strained your badly-damaged ears in an attempt to discern how many were in the house with you and approximately where they were.

But they were moving too quietly for you to hear clearly. Only the occasional creak of a floorboard or the half-destroyed ceiling gave anything away and the house was so close to falling apart even that might have just been the wind or the house itself.

“I’m so fucking dead,” you breathed. You sent a fervent prayer out to anything and everything. You didn’t want to die in the middle of this forsaken desert. You gripped your rifle and pointed it at the doorway. If you were going down you were at least going to take as many with you as you could. They wouldn’t take you alive.

“Well you are a dramatic one, aren’t you?”

Your head swiveled to the right, following the source of the noise, and nearly screamed in surprise. Where there had been only air and dust a second ago now sat a young man in a blue pea coat and dark burgundy pants. An old rifle was strapped to his back and his russet boots looked old and well-used, though they were clearly well taken care of.

You scrambled away only for his hand to shoot out and drag you back to where you’d been before.

A spray of bullets sped past your face, close enough that you could feel the disturbed air against your cheeks.

“I suggest staying right there,” he said with a smirk. “You’re quite thoroughly surrounded.”

“Who the fuck are you?” you asked, staring wide-eyed at the man.

He frowned at that and tilted his head to the side. “Would you believe me if I said I was your guardian angel?” he asked. His ice blue eyes bored into you as though he could see right through you. For your part, you certainly felt like you were being x-rayed.

“While you certainly look the part I think it’s more likely I’m having a psychotic break,” you said, wide-eyed and frowning at the man.

He chuckled. It was a deep, chest-rumbling laugh that, were you not in a life-or-death situation, would have turned you into a pile of goo. “Sorry, Doll. No psychotic break today. Just little ol’ me. I heard your plea and decided to show up to see what all the fuss was about. Gotta say, you’ve gotten yourself into quite the pickle here,” he said easily, as though you’d gotten a flat tire instead of being surrounded by a small army of angry, hostile combatants with automatic rifles and missile launchers.

“What a time to get fucking hallucinations,” you mumbled bitterly.

“I’m not a hallucination,” the man said calmly.

“Then what the fuck are you?” you hissed, making the mistake of taking your eyes off the door.

Two men suddenly darkened the doorway, assault rifles pointed directly at your face. You didn’t even have time to point your gun at them before they pulled the triggers. You flinched, even though you knew it’d be over faster than you could process. You’d be a red splatter on the wall in an instant.

Except the impact never came. Or maybe it did and you were already dead?

That would explain why it was so quiet.

“Open your eyes.”

You did as the voice said, only because your curiosity had gotten the better of you. You blinked once, then twice, just to be sure your eyes were, in fact, open.

The room was unnaturally dark, but a few things stood out among the inky blackness.

One, there was a wall of bullets headed straight for you, though they seemed to be frozen midair. How, you couldn’t be sure. That wasn’t how the laws of physics worked.

Two, the two hostiles were frozen in place, as well. They weren’t even breathing.

Three, the man was the only other thing moving.

Four, the man was not a man at all. He was standing now, though you hadn’t seen him move. Inky black tendrils seeped from his back, encasing the room in darkness. Grey-blue spots the same color as his eyes glittered in the darkness like stars in the night. It was like the night sky had been trapped in the room. It was almost beautiful... if the entire experience wasn’t so bizarre.

“I have a proposition for you,” the not-man said, turning his eyes on you. With a shock you realized the whites of his eyes had turned the same black as the tendrils attached to him, making the blue even brighter and more stunning than before.

“What the hell are you,” you breathed, staring up at him in a mix of awe and horror.

He frowned and crossed his arms. “That’s kinda rude, y’know,” he groused. “Here I am, offering you the deal of a lifetime, and you go and insult me.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You have tentacles. Coming out of your back.”

He glanced behind himself lazily and one of them draped itself over his shoulder, then scratched thoughtfully at his chin, almost like a hand would. “S’pose that’s true. Here’s the thing, though, Dollface. What I’m offering you is a one time deal. Take it and I’ll give you the power you need to get out of here. Hell, once this whole fiasco is over, you could really change the war. The world, if you’re feeling all grandiose. You’d be the perfect soldier, the perfect human, at least physically. Can’t change anything in that lovely noggin of yours, that’s against the rules. Something tells me I don’t gotta worry about that, though. You seem smart. Decline and I’ll start time again. I’m nice, though, so I’ll move you a few feet to the side. Give you a fighting chance and all that, though there are sixty-two more guys just like these two close by.”

You stared at him shrewdly. “And what’ll that cost me?” Nothing in this world was free, especially not some great cosmic power this being seemed to be offering.

The not-man paused picking at his nail and looked down at you. His smile turned melancholy and he lowered himself slowly until he was squatting directly in front of you. His tentacles undulated slowly behind him, creating a dark ever-shifting backdrop that contrasted wildly to his bright eyes and pale skin. “Why, Dollface, it’ll cost you everything.”

Next Chapter (Coming Soon)

If you’d like to be tagged in this series, like this post! Sorry, but responses to this post asking to be tagged will be ignored, so send me an ask or like one of the taglist posts!

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fictionfromgames · 6 years ago

Text

Book of Void fluff (ATLA/LOK)

Weiyong did his best not to blink or stare into the flashes as dozens of bulbs went off in front of him. Journalists crowded along the path, jockeying for the best angle as world leaders or their notable subordinates made their way through.

“Avatar.”

Fire Lord Oshi’s voice called behind him, snapping Weiyong out of his thoughts.

“Fire Lord Oshi,” he quickly turned and bowed, “How have you been?”

As he righted himself, Weiyong saw two new additions to the young man’s face, slashlike tattoos starting at the jaw below his ears and sweeping up to his cheeks, ending parallel to his eyes.

“I’ve been alright,” Oshi gestured with one hand, “Kinda been on a ‘spiritual retreat’ in the boondocks.”

“Well it looks good, kid,” the Avatar smiled. The Fire Sages in tow, however, frowned.

“Or uh, your highness.”

The reporters flocked as they met, prompting the two to pose congenially. He hadn’t seen Oshi in a few years, basically before adulthood, and even though they regularly corresponded, Weiyong realized he really missed his young friend. They clasped hands and nodded toward the lenses.

“Hey, do you wanna watch from my box?” Oshi inquired, still looking out into the crowd.

“Dunno if it’s the diplomatic thing to do or not, but yeah, I’d like that,” the middle aged Avatar replied.

“It’s not like Kamala’s gonna mind, right?” Oshi was done posing, ready to move on.

So he’d noticed too. The distinctive lack of yellow robes meant a political protest from the Air Nomads. Weiyong frowned. They’d been issuing requests and pleas to stop the launch of Tenshin 1, but to no avail. The overwhelming response from the United Republic, as well as the telecom giants across the world, was that it needed to go up. The world was struggling for another technological surge on the level of Old Republic City, and instant global communication was seen as one of the keys to moving forward. Everyone but Kamala and the Air Nomads had seemed eager. Weiyong had mostly wished they were there in an act of solidarity.

“Sir?” an OWL agent looked to him.

“Oh, sorry, uh, yeah, I’d like to spend a little while with the Fire Lord, if that’s manageable.”

The White Lotus agent mumbled into his radio and issued a curt nod.

One of the Fire Sages had to stand, but for the Avatar, it was an easy deference. It was a little crowded due to the teams of security, but they all fit.

“How’s things back home?” Weiyong asked.

“Eh, same as when I was out and about,” Oshi waved, “Still kinda seeing some problematic employment numbers, but crime is at least not increasing. More reports of Void Spirits, but they don’t really bother anyone.”

“You know I’ve still never seen one?” Weiyong’s brow creased.

“Really? I’ve had one visit anytime I’m studying,” the Fire Lord looked surprised, “You’d think spirits would feel pretty comfortable around the Avatar.”

“Maybe the airbenders are right and something’s off about ‘em,” the elder man suggested.

“They’re harmless as far as I’ve seen,” Oshi shrugged, “I just figure if there’s anyone to be curious about, it’s you.”

“I’m not that interesting.”

*******

More stuff

Intelligence Agencies

The Office of the White Lotus retains its status as an international entity, and offers a Secret Service type force for the Avatar. As a subset of the United Republic, they struggle to stay ahead of the game, having discovered moles from various nation states around the globe. Their strengths rely more on chi blocking, technology, and public relations than on spy games, which means their efforts are more reactionary and investigative than anything.

The Dai Li forms an overarching network of spies, drawn from individual agents from every former Earth Kingdom state. From police, to military officials, to scholars and a few politicians, they form a covert group that manipulates each of the independent states at the highest levels, often instigating border wars to maintain the facade that the Earth States are definitely their own thing and not another rehash of the old monarchies. Effectively, the shadow government that secretly unites them.

The Fire Nation is fairly adept with their own. The Order of the Blue Spirit is an organization that was formed by the Fire Sages that began as an informal group of vigilantes aimed at eradicating nationalist factions dedicated to Fire Lords from the Hundred Years War. They have thus remained removed from the attention of the Fire Lord, and later the Ministry as a way to ensure a power hungry figurehead couldn’t repeat the travesties of the past.

Lately, however, they’ve taken on more subversive roles, both as spies and secret police. Abroad, they clash with the OWL and Dai Li to further Fire Nation economic interests, as the situation at home is getting more precarious. Strike breaking has been one function that has been gaining traction, as society decides what a “functioning modern economy” actually means.

Fire Lord Oshi

Mid twenties, a little less serious than is expected, Oshi came to prominence when traveling with the Avatar. Then Prince Oshi was an endearing, younger brother figure to Weiyong, who as mentioned kept in touch ever since.

Oshi has actually met Blue Spirit agents on these adventures, but neither he nor the Avatar managed to correctly identify them with the group itself.

The scars on his cheeks are gifts of the Sun Warriors, who he studied under for about half a year, in order to understand them in a more personal way than the clinical reports he’d receive from the department tasked with their protection. He met a potentially serious love interest whom he intends to return to, and was accepted as warrior in their tribe.

Master Kamala

Head of the Air Nomads, with degrees in Astronomy and Astrophysics, Kamala is deeply immersed in the science and spirituality of space. An earlier ally of Weiyong, they often differed on priorities, but are longtime friends, and helped shape the goals of Avatar’s Peak. Now a world class scientist, Kamala has actually laid the theoretical groundwork for the satellite program, which would have been fine, until the appearance of the Void Spirits.

For whatever reason, no one listens to airbenders.

Void Spirits

Inspired by the “Mormnock” entry in the Legend of the Elements book, Void Spirits are vaguely humanoid blob spirits who seem to observe and sometimes mimic a lone individual’s habits. They disappear or generally flee when confronted, or even merely observed directly by the target of their interest, and have caused curiosity rather than harm.

Air Nomads are extremely wary of these visitors, as they seem to perturb other spirits, and have an unearthly aura about them. To draw on mid 20th century mass UFO sightings, Air Nomads (and other very spiritually attuned humans) have started speaking out, claiming they’re not from "our”world, or even what we know of the Spirit World-- they’re from space! As such, they don’t vibe with more terrestrially based spirits, don’t understand bending as we do, and are generally curious about what we’re doing here. They have avoided the Avatar entirely, as a beacon of Earth’s spiritual and material forces.

The way I envisioned them arriving is via spirit/electromagnetic phenomena, like the “Spirit Roads” or “northern lights” were in Book 2 of Korra, and that the Air Nomads would see humanity’s reach into space as a potential avenue for these beings we don’t really comprehend. You can flip the script on the Air Nomads as well, saying that their astronomical research and spiritual grasp into the void is equally or more likely for the attention of these visitors. In any case, magical interplanetary travel is an easy way to introduce aliens as opposed to the regular tech based sci fi, and I feel is a bit more in tune with the setting.

If you’d like to use them as Book level antagonists, this could be the “apocalyptic event” that so many ATLA futurists envision for the setting. Void Spirits on both the “street” and “kaiju” levels would probably decimate humanity unless it were united against it, and even if they were, who would be left to pick up the pieces? For giant monster battles, the Deep Spirits could probably be roused in defense of the Earth, because even if they despise what humanity is doing, look at these freaks and what THEY’RE doing, right?

Weiyong and building an Avatar

RAW, multi-bending characters can happen, even willy nilly. You could easily make a tri-bending antagonist if you like, but the way to get all four elements is one of two ways-- switch Playbooks and take new moves from there (a bare minimum of 5 Improvements and 1 Advanced Improvement), or find a Master Shaper character to teach you the basic Moves.

I feel like this doesn’t gel so much with the Avatars we’ve seen, who could kind of figure some small things out themselves, especially Korra, who was bending everything but air as a small child. So for brand new, 0 Improvement Avatars, I suggest the following:

Pick one Shaper Playbook, and have the other three elemental Moves available to use, but the three others all roll at a strict -1 until they either take the appropriate Move or learn it from a Master, at which point they roll from their typical stats.

The Avatar State is a bit different in the mechanics too, having to build up a unique stat AFTER having accessed the Worldshaper sub-Playbook and purchasing the Move. I say, give ‘em the move, but stick to the fact that they have to wage peace to gain Spirit in order to use it.

For those who haven’t read Legend of the Elements, basically the Avatar Move gives that character a sixth stat, Spirit, and it starts at 0 and can even drop to -1, because the game punishes the Avatar for committing soulless wanton violence. I love that, and see that as fitting given the fact that Raava is the other half of the Avatar spirit. When you enter the State, you use Spirit as the stat for every bending roll, regardless of the element, which I also really enjoy, because it can get up to +3, and it means that whatever your character wasn’t so great at before is rightfully ignored by the power of the Avatar State, even as a brand new character.

It also means that the Avatar themselves has to play peacekeeper more often, so it’s not a character for people who want straight up bending wars. You can be more lenient in cases of constant unavoidable conflict, giving the Avatar kudos for at least trying, or for other reasons entirely, such as in a Void Spirit induced apocalypse and a need for a more active Avatar. It’s up to you and your players to determine how often this is necessary or fun.

Weiyong Character Sheet

Natural +1 Hot +1 Solid +2 Keen 0 Fluid +1 Spirit +2

Moves

Earthshaping Metalshaping Airshaping Fireshaping Watershaping Iceshaping Astral Projection

Sub-Playbook moves Lavashaping Chosen of the World Spirit Sealed

Fortune 2

#original content #avatar #atla #legend of korra #lok #avatar the last airbender #avatar rpg #avatar the last airbender rpg #legend of korra rpg #legend of the elements #fluff #rpg fluff #worldbuilding

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lady-divine-writes · 6 years ago

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Klaine Advent Drabble - “Performance Anxiety” (PG13)

Blaine has been keeping secrets, spending late nights up, not coming to bed, and his husband is ready to get to the bottom of things. (1815 words)

Notes: I wrote this for the Klaine Advent Drabble challenge 2017 prompt 'performance'. But it's more relevant to me now than when I started writing it.

Read on AO3.

“Blaine?” A groggy Kurt yawns as he makes his way down the dark hallway to Blaine’s studio, the light beneath the door a beacon leading him along. He’s half asleep, but it’s been a miserable sleep since his husband never came to bed, too wrapped up in something that’s been occupying his mind recently.

Something that he has yet to discuss.

When Kurt reaches the door, he pauses before knocking to listen, trying to pick up a sound that would be a clue to his husband’s strange mood and obsessive late hours over the past week.

He’d hoped to hear music - a new composition, or the fine tuning of an older song. But he hears clicking instead.

He raps on the door lightly with his knuckles, his head throbbing with the remains of a sleep hangover.

“Blaine? Honey? Can I come in?”

The rustling of papers greets him before his husband’s voice.

That could be promising.

“Uh … yeah. Come on in.”

“What are you doing up so late?” Kurt asks, opening the door in stages so the light doesn’t spear his eyes. With it open a crack, he gets his first peek at Blaine, sitting on his futon with his computer in his lap, manuscript pages stacked haphazardly beside him, their corners poking this way and that as if they were tossed there in a hurry.

“I’m just … I’m writing,” he says, absentmindedly tidying the papers with one hand and tilting his computer screen down with the other. It doesn’t seem suspicious at first because Kurt’s brain is bleeding with exhaustion, but he happens to catch the reflection of Blaine’s computer screen in the TV behind him, and his eyes fly open wide.

“No, you’re not! You’re playing Farmville!”

“No!” Blaine closes his laptop further to shield the screen from view, but he gives up quickly. He knows he’s been caught. He bows his head in shame. “Yes. Yes, I am. I’m sorry.”

“How long, Blaine?” Kurt asks, arms crossed over his chest. “How long have you been playing?”

“Since … um … since I came home.”

“Since you came … that was nine hours ago!”

“I know, I know …”

“Blaine …” Kurt covers his face with his hands, stopping himself from saying another word before he has a chance to catch his breath. This isn’t a new behavior for Blaine. It’s happened before. Blaine had become addicted to Farmville when Candy Crush got monotonous, but he only played them when anxiety got the better of him. It was his escape – an escape that occupied large pockets of Blaine’s time, and that made it a sore spot between him and Kurt.

Because Kurt wanted to be Blaine’s escape when his anxiety got bad. He wanted to be the thing Blaine ran to, that he poured his heart and his sadness and his stress into. But when they tried that, it never worked.

It stings less than Blaine’s short lived porn addiction, but it still stings.

It’s been six years, though, and during that time, Blaine even admitted he hated it. He swore he’d never go back, that he’d find a different, healthier outlet.

What could be bothering Blaine so badly that he’d break that promise to himself?

“I’m sorry,” Blaine repeats quietly, moving his computer off his lap and onto the cushion beside him. “I didn’t mean …”

“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overreact. I’m just … overtired. It’s hard to sleep without you.” Kurt joins his husband on the futon, rests his head on Blaine’s shoulder. “I know this isn’t about me. It’s how you cope with stress. But remember, you’re the one who said that Farmville is the devil.”

“Facebook’s the devil,” Blaine corrects. “Farmville’s only a minion.” Kurt chuckles, but Blaine can’t. “It’s so damned satisfying. And it’s much easier to organize things here than up here,” he says, tapping his temple with his finger. “You know?”

Kurt nods, taking his husband’s hand in his while he listens to him explain.

“And every time I complete a quest or unlock something new, it feels like I’m accomplishing something. That I’m getting closer to a goal. That I’m winning. Does that make any sense?”

“It does,” Kurt admits. “But I’ve seen you on your computer every night this week. If you’ve been playing Farmville all those times …” which Blaine’s sudden fidgeting with the knee of his slacks tells Kurt he has “… it’s taking your attention away from other things. More important things. Work related things. Things you want to accomplish in real life.”

“Actually, it’s not taking me away from anything. It’s helping me avoid something. Something I haven’t told you about yet, and I’m … I’m really sorry about that, too.” Blaine slips his hand underneath the hastily stacked pile of papers and pulls out his phone. He unlocks the screen and hands it over to Kurt. Kurt stares at it, full of messages outlining the secret Blaine had been keeping for close to a week now. Kurt scrolls through them, skimming them more than reading them, which causes him to need to scroll back when he misses a few key points. But by his third read thru, he’s sure he understands, and he squeezes Blaine’s hand in excitement.

“The record label blue lighted your album release!?” Kurt looks at Blaine for confirmation. He gives it with a shrug and a bashful half-smile. “That’s wonderful!”

“No,” Blaine says, smile gone. “No, it’s not wonderful.”

“Why is it not wonderful?”

“Because they want to send me on the road to promote it!”

“As we anticipated,” Kurt says. “I already warned Isabelle that I’ll need some time off.”

“No, you don’t understand. They don’t want me to just go on a few radio shows. They want me to go back to my roots. To Starbucks and The Lima Bean! They want me to perform it live!”

“What’s wrong with that? It’ll be good practice, help you get back in the swing of things.”

“But I haven’t performed live in a small venue in ages!”

“That’s the best part! It’ll be gritty! And raw!” Kurt says, imagining his husband squeezing into the clothes he wore back in the day – tight jeans, artfully faded, ripped at the knees and under the butt; his black leather jacket; his thin, retro tank tops that showed off his bulging biceps. Why are they sitting on this futon arguing about this? Why aren’t they grabbing his guitar and leaving now!?

“What if I mess up? What if I forget the lyrics?”

“So, what if you do?”

“People will throw coffee at me!”

“Are you kidding? For the price Starbucks charges?”

“Kurt!”

“Blaine! Your fans love you! When they come to see you perform, they know what they’re getting. They’re getting you, and that’s what they want. And if you forget the lyrics, you can turn it into a thing. You can pull the old man card. Make it tongue-in-cheek. People will think it’s cute.”

“Or obnoxious.”

“That, too. But who cares!? Your fans have been waiting for you to make your comeback for too long! You’ve been shelving projects left and right for almost a decade that you should have been jumping into with both feet! You post more ads on your Instagram feed than album updates.”

Blaine flinches. “Now, that’s a little harsh …”

“Blaine, you can’t shy away from the spotlight because you don’t think you’re going to shine brightly enough! That’s juvenile thinking! That’s Blaine after high school, scared of breaking out into the world, not Blaine here and now, award winning songwriter and epic rock star, ready to burst back into the public eye! Because that’s who you are. You’re not a has been, not a quitter, and you’re definitely not a farmer!”

“I mean, have you actually seen my farm …?”

“Blaine!”

Blaine sighs, looking from the phone in Kurt’s hands to the computer by his side, and the stack of papers that represents over a dozen works in progress. Those are the real tragedy in this equation, the real addiction he needs to overcome. Every time the record label or his agent or his manager tries to convince him that his record - the one he’s been working on for longer than he’s been famous - is good enough to stand alone, he’d disagree, then return to this pile of slush and hammer away at these tired old rhythms and melodies, determined that what he had completed was nowhere near good enough. It needed something more, something he could only find here.

They’re his safety net.

They’re holding him back.

“I guess you’re right.”

“You guess I’m right?” Kurt huffs. “No, no, no. You know I’m right. So tomorrow morning, you’re going to text your record label and tell them you’re taking their offer.”

“Well, why don’t I do it now?” Blaine reaches for his phone, but Kurt keeps it out of his reach.

“Because then they’ll call you back, all excited, wanting to schedule meetings and iron out deals … and I have plans for you.”

“What plans?” Blaine watches his husband stand, tugging his hand to get him to follow.

“We’re going to go to bed and play an adult game.” We’re going to see if you still fit in those torn-up jeans … maybe tear them up a little more.

“Okay,” Blaine says. “Sounds good. Just … give me a second to clean up?”

Kurt raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t like that answer. He doesn’t like any response to his offer that doesn’t include Blaine bolting off his futon and racing to their room, shedding clothing down the hall as he goes. “Alright. But don’t take too long.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

Kurt heads for the door with Blaine’s phone in his hands to ensure his husband can’t call anyone. He hears the shuffling of papers as he leaves, but once he’s out in the hallway with the door mostly shut behind him, that stops. He hangs around, peeking in through the crack he left to watch what his husband is doing. There Blaine sits, staring at the door as if he can see Kurt’s eyeball peeking in. But when he thinks the coast is clear, he grabs his laptop and puts it back on his lap. The second he straightens the screen, Kurt storms back in, a move that nearly makes a startled Blaine toss his laptop across the room. “Blaine! What the---what are you doing?”

“Kurt! I just have to do this one thing …”

“Oh hell no!” Kurt snatches Blaine’s laptop and snaps the screen shut, which elicits a high-pitched yelp of distress from his husband.

“But, Kurt! My carrots! If I don’t harvest them, they’ll wither and die!”

“Something more important is going to wither and die if you don’t get your butt in our bedroom right now!”

#klaine fanfiction #klaine fic #klaine #frankie writes

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thisdiscontentedwinter · 7 years ago

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e-Missary

It’s the 27th here, so I’m posting my Steter Secret Santa fic.

Happy holidays to my giftee @hotpinklizard and I hope you enjoy!

And thank you to @stetersecretsanta for putting this whole thing together!

Peter Hale has a tension headache building behind his eyes, a nephew who has picked the wrong time to have a crisis of conscience, and a bound and gagged college freshman in the trunk of his car as he speeds north along Highway 101. This is not how he intended his weekend to go, but Peter is nothing if not adaptable.

“I’m calling Mom,” Derek says, stony-faced.

“Come now, nephew.” Peter flashes him a smile. “No need to be hasty.”

There’s a barrage of dull thumps from the trunk of the car.

“I’m calling Mom,” Derek repeats.

Peter sighs as Derek digs around in his pockets.

“Where’s my phone?” Derek growls, his eyes flashing.

“Did you leave it on the top of the car when we stopped for gas?” Peter asks. “People do that all the time.”

“Why would I…” Derek trails off, words replaced with a more menacing growl this time as he realizes exactly what happened to his phone, and exactly who is to blame.

In Peter’s defense, Derek should be more careful with his personal belongings and not leave them where they can be so easily pick-pocketed. Like in his pockets. That’s just asking for trouble. Perhaps Peter setting his phone on the roof of the car at the last gas station will teach him to be more responsible in the future.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” Peter promises.

He will, too. Peter is always as good as his word—although, crucially, never any better—and none of this is Derek’s fault. Peter blames Alan Deaton for this entire mess, actually. Peter has never trusted Deaton. Never. Deaton is too difficult to read, and Peter has never believed that the emissary’s goals align exactly with those of the Hale Pack.

Former emissary’s.

Peter leans down to turn the volume up on the radio, hoping to drown out both Derek’s growling and the incessant thumping from the trunk. They’ll both tire themselves out sooner or later, right?

The rousing strains of Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries fill the car. It seems like appropriate musical accompaniment for the shitstorm Peter is currently well and truly headed into.

No, this is definitely not how he intended on spending his weekend.

None of this is his fault, for the record. Peter would like that very clearly stated. It’s all Alan Deaton’s fault. And it started three weeks ago back in Beacon Hills.

***

“Excuse me?” Peter asks in the sudden silence. “You’re fucking joking, aren’t you?”

His sister Talia leans back in her chair and gives him a look. The look. The one she’s been giving him since the day he was born. The Peter-I-can’t-believe-you-please-act-like-a-civilized-creature-for-once-in-your-life-for-the-love-of-all-that-is-holy look. It’s what Talia does. And Peter ignores it, because that’s what he does.

“I assure you I’m not joking,” Alan Deaton says in that insufferably calm manner of his that makes Peter want to tear his throat out. “I’m going to move to Minnesota and start up an organic dairy farm.”

“Okay, that’s bullshit,” Peter says, narrowing his eyes. “For starters, nobody would choose to move to Minnesota. And secondly, you don’t get to retire, Alan, you’re our emissary!”

Peter doesn’t like Deaton, but that doesn’t mean the smarmy asshole just gets to walk away. Deaton is their emissary. It’s a sacred trust. There were blood oaths involved. Retirement is not a fucking option.

“Peter’s right, Alan,” Talia says, sounding way too calm for the situation.

Of course Peter’s right. Peter is always right. Really, the sooner people realize this fact as one of the immutable truths of the universe, the better off everyone will be and the more smoothly everything will run.

Deaton looks as serenely unruffled as always. He inclines his head a fraction. “I assure you, Talia, that the welfare of the Hale Pack remains my highest priority.”

Peter folds his arms over his chest. He can barely suppress the urge to roll his eyes.

Outside, he hears the patter of little paws in the corridor. Peter prowls closer to the closed library door and growls lowly, just to remind any small eavesdroppers that now might be a good idea to be elsewhere, and is rewarded by the sound of the pups skedaddling away again. Sometimes being the alpha’s left hand means drowning her enemies in their own blood, and sometimes it means stopping small excitable children from barging into meetings. It’s a mixed bag.

When he turns back to Talia and Deaton, it’s just in time to see Deaton slide what looks to be a business card across Talia’s desk.

Talia picks it up and inspects it. “What’s this?”

“That,” Alan Deaton says, “is the name of a spark who can act as your emissary until you find a permanent replacement.”

“Alan,” Talia says. “He has a website.”

“Stiles offers an online service,” Deaton says calmly.

“Online,” Talia repeats, arching an unimpressed eyebrow.

Peter stalks forward and holds his hand out for the card.

Stiles the Spark, it reads in unnecessary cursive, e-Missary online services.

What. The. Fuck?

Peter has always been interested in magic. Unnaturally so, actually, since most werewolves have an aversion to it. That aversion is more cultural than biological. For creatures that surround themselves with magic, werewolves shy away from practicing it. It’s why human emissaries are so necessary for packs: to place wards, to enhance the strength of the pack bonds and the alpha, to use their magic to protect, to defend and—if necessary—to attack. Magic is elemental. It’s tied intrinsically to the pack, to the land, and to the heartbeat of the magic user.

There’s no fucking app for it, basically.

Peter wants nothing more than to tear the business card up into shreds, and shove the pieces up Alan Deaton’s ass.

Deaton just smiles slightly. “Stiles is more than capable of maintaining the wards and monitoring the telluric currents online, I promise you.”

“We’re talking about magic, Alan,” Talia says. “Not tech support.”

“What’s the difference, really?” Deaton asks, a slight smile tugging up the corners of his mouth.

Talia blinks at him, like she’s actually thinking about it.

Shit.

She’s actually going to fall for his enigmatic bullshit.

“Talia,” Peter says, voice low in warning.

Talia takes back the business card, and looks at it thoughtfully.

“Talia,” Peter repeats.

His sister meets his gaze and shrugs. “It can’t do any harm to look into it, Peter.”

Fuck Alan Deaton, fuck Minnesota, and fuck Peter’s life. Because of course it won’t be Talia looking into it, will it? No, it will not. This is absolutely going to be a job for her left hand. And, like wrangling the toddlers away from secret meetings with the emissary, it’s going to be one of the shitty jobs.

Peter can just tell.

***

Talia, against Peter’s advice, makes contact with the emissary. Or, rather, the e-Missary. Jesus. Peter detests him for that butchering of the English language alone.

“His name really is Stiles,” Talia tells Peter the next morning over breakfast. “He’s a freshman at Stanford. He’s been practicing magic since he was fourteen.”

“That’s hardly a ringing endorsement if he’s still practically in diapers,” Peter points out.

“He comes with a recommendation from Satomi.”

Okay, so that’s a surprise. Satomi Ito is the alpha of a pack in a neighboring territory, and she’s no pushover.

“I don’t like it,” Peter says. “I don’t care if Deaton says he can work his magic remotely. That’s not the point. The point is, an emissary is supposed to have a bond with a pack. How the hell are we supposed to know if we can even trust this Stiles if we can’t scent him, or hear his heartbeat?”

And that’s the crux of the matter. Werewolves rely on scent, and on body language, and on a thousand different tells in the way a person presents themselves. And none of those things work via email. This spark could be laughing at them while he plans to dismantle every one of the magic protections Alan Deaton has set up around the Hale territory, and they wouldn’t even know it.

It’s dangerous.

Peter lowers his voice. “How do we know he isn’t working for some other pack at the same time he’s worming his way past our defenses?”

Werewolf packs aren’t what they once were, but that’s not to say there are no longer any fangs hidden behind polite smiles, or claws in a handshake. And the Hale territory is very attractive. A faithless emissary could easily sell them out to the highest bidder. And while that may not be a likely scenario, it’s still Peter’s job to consider it. He wouldn’t be his alpha’s left hand if he trusted too easily. The requirements for the job of left hand are a keen intelligence wrapped around a suspicious nature, an aptitude for intrigue that would make Machiavelli proud, and a strong stomach when it comes to bloodshed.

Peter is over qualified.

He was born over qualified.

Talia reaches out and puts her hand on his shoulder. “The contact specifies that he’s to work with only one pack at a time.”

Peter waits.

Talia digs her fingers in to the muscle of his shoulder. “Look into it for me, won’t you, Peter?”

Peter nods, his eyes flashing.

Stiles the Spark had better be exactly as trustworthy as he promises, or he’s going to be in for a world of regret.

***

For all of her initial caution, Talia spends an hour on the phone with Satomi Ito, and then signs the contract with Stiles the Spark on a Monday afternoon.

“Satomi vouches for him,” she says, as though that settles the matter. “And I’ve spoken to him. I think we can trust him.”

“Are you serious?” Peter is aghast.

“It’s fine, Peter,” Talia says. “I’ve made my decision. Let it go.”

It doesn’t settle the matter at all. Not for Peter.

“Besides,” Talia says, “the website thing is very modern.”

She says it as though Peter should be amused, or at least grudgingly impressed.

Peter is neither.

On Tuesday morning, the air shimmers in the Preserve as the wards pulse and surge. There’s a burst of ozone in the air, the smell of a sky before the storm, and then it passes.

On Tuesday evening Alan Deaton inspects the new wards, declares them good, and packs his car and heads for Minnesota.

Peter hopes that the first time he tries to milk an organic dairy cow, it steps on his head and crushes his skull.

***

Derek is never going to be a left hand. The boy is… well, Peter loves him dearly, but he’s a marshmallow. Even the leather jacket and the brooding eyebrows can’t hide that for long. Peter has always been amused at how differently they present. Derek tries to look like a bad boy even though that mask is as flimsy as rice paper. Peter, on the other hand, comes across as charming and friendly. By the time people see Peter’s fangs, it’s way too late.

Derek is not Peter’s first choice for a sidekick, or a minion, or whatever the term is whenever the left hand needs a little backup. Hopefully the term is not co-defendant. Peter’s first choice for business like this would be Cora, but she’s away at college so it’s Derek who accompanies him on his trip to the Bay Area to find out what they can about Stiles the Spark.

They don’t even have his full name, but they do know where he lives. Not that it was easy information to find. Peter had to call in a huge favor to get the address. But all the VPNs and proxies and whatever the hell else the spark used to hide his location—Peter is not especially tech savvy—were no match at all for Peter’s contact in the NSA. Really, it’s a travesty how the government spies on its own citizens, but it’s so useful.

Stiles the Spark lives in a small studio apartment in Charleston Meadow. The building is old but reasonably well maintained. It’s nothing special at all, although Peter has no doubt the rent is exorbitant. Welcome to the Bay Area.

Peter and Derek park a little way up the street, and then they wait.

Peter flicks through the contract the spark signed with Talia. The one where he agrees to work exclusively with the Hale Pack for the duration of the contract. It’s a six week contract, with an option for an extension if both parties agree. In those six weeks, Stiles the Spark will take care of defensive warding, do whatever general protective spell-work is required of him by Talia, and respond to any formal communications made by other packs. All the very basic duties of an emissary, but Peter deeply distrusts handing those duties over to a stranger, however highly recommended he comes.

He glares at Stiles the Spark’s illegible crawl of a signature on the contract, and feels his upper lip curl up in a snarl.

“You’re sure this guy is plotting to backstab us somehow, aren’t you?” Derek asks.

“I’m not sure of anything,” Peter says. “That’s why we’re here.”

“Not everyone has ulterior motives.”

“Not everyone,” Peter agrees. “But it only takes one.”

Derek presses his mouth together a little tightly, and if he’s not thinking of Kate Argent right now then he damn well should be. If it hadn’t been for Peter following Derek to one of his assignations with his secret girlfriend, Kate Argent might have killed them all. So no, Peter will never apologize for being suspicious-minded.

“Does Mom know we’re here?” Derek asks after a moment.

“She asked me to look into things,” Peter says, neglecting to mention that she later rescinded that order.

Derek’s brows pull together. “But does she know we’re here?”

Peter does him a favor and doesn’t answer that directly. Derek is a mama’s boy. He hates disappointing Talia. Given that she’s the alpha, it’s no character flaw at all but Derek doesn’t even give himself any wriggle room. It would be unthinkable to him to act without his alpha’s explicit permission. He wasn’t always like this, but with Derek it’s once bitten, twice shy. Just another legacy of Kate Argent.

“It’s fine, Derek,” Peter says, his mouth curling up in what he intends to be a reassuring smile. “It’s fine, I promise.”

Derek doesn’t look convinced.

Once Peter has got this spark thing sorted out, he’s going get Derek very, very drunk on wolfsbane-infused whiskey, take him to a club, and encourage him to make some reckless decisions with some pretty people. The boy really needs to loosen up. Most importantly, he needs to learn that it’s entirely possible to get laid without having to fear for his life, and that the act of putting his dick inside someone has no correlation at all with whether or not they’re plotting to kill him and his entire pack. Really, the chances of that happening more than once are infinitesimal, right?

It’s past noon when a young man appears from the front of the apartment complex in an explosion of plaid and flailing limbs. He looks like a typical college kid: bags under his eyes, a backpack flung over his shoulder, mussed up hair, and clothes that have never seen an iron. Peter watches his progress from the front steps to the sidewalk with an amused sort of disinterest—the kid is clearly not a spark. He is too young, too clumsy, and he gives off the same commanding aura of power and control as a kitten chasing a ping pong ball across a newly waxed floor—but Peter watches him because there’s nothing else to watch. Which is why he’s paying attention when the kid trips over his own feet, and the contents of his backpack go flying.

Paper and pens and other detritus scatter all over the sidewalk.

A gleaming silver laptop… does not.

It just hangs in the air, a foot or so above the ground, with the kid’s hand outstretched toward it. For a moment nothing moves, and then the kid hurries forward and plucks the laptop out of the air. He shoves it into his backpack with a guilty expression on his face, and then gets down on his hands and knees to collect everything else. Moments later he’s back on his feet, jogging toward the battered old blue Jeep parked further down the street.

“Did that…” Derek murmurs, and shakes his head. “Did that just happen?”

Peter feels a thrill run through him. It’s not very often that he’s surprised.

“Well,” he says, craning his neck to watch as the Jeep roars off down the street. “I think we’ve found our spark.”

***

Stiles the Spark lives in apartment 4F. It’s the work of minutes for Peter to pick the lock. He feels a buzz of something like static in the air as the door swings open, and then all the air is abruptly sucked out of the room, the edges of Peter’s vision darken, and Peter gets a whiff of a scent that makes his fangs drop and his claws extend just as the door slams shut in his face again.

Well then.

It looks like they just tripped the spark’s alarm system.

Good.

Because if what Peter just smelled inside the spark’s apartment is indeed the case, then this information gathering mission just turned into something very different indeed.

And Peter will take the spark apart very, very slowly with his claws until he tells them who he’s really working for.

***

Derek isn’t Peter’s first choice for a sidekick, but he does make excellent bait. He’s fiddling with the lock on the door of apartment 4F when the Stiles the Spark returns, while Peter, thanks to the judicious application of a teensy bit of magic and the handy placement of an incredibly ugly ficus in the hallway of the apartment building, doesn’t even register as a blip on the spark’s radar. Of course, the spark is way more fixated on the guy trying to break into his apartment.

Peter was counting on that.

The boy is magnificent, really.

He strides down the hallway toward Derek, and he’s no flailing, clumsy student now. He’s a whirlwind, a dervish, a force of nature.

“Who sent you?” he demands, voice as low as a predator’s as he stalks closer to Derek. “What do you want?”

He could call up storms with that voice, Peter thinks. Call up storms and rain down fire. All the electricity in the air seems to gather around him as he moves. It crackles, and the air shifts and shimmers around him.

He’s incredible.

A part of Peter almost wants to see how this will play out—he imagines something with thunderbolts—but Derek is looking increasingly terrified, like a fluffy little bunny cornered by something with fangs, and Talia will never forgive Peter if her baby doesn’t come home in one unblemished piece.

“What are you doing here?” the boy demands, closing the distance between him and Derek. “Who the hell are you?”

Peter almost reluctantly steps out from the shelter provided by the ficus. “He would be the distraction, sweetheart.”

The boy spins back to face him, and his mouth drops open just as Peter blows a handful of iron filings right in his face.

The boy is magnificent, but he has fuck all situational awareness.

His eyes roll back in his head and he goes down like a sack of rocks.

“And you must be Stiles,” Peter says with a smirk.

***

Thump thump thump from the trunk.

Well, apparently someone is still very unhappy about his travel arrangements.

They’re still about two hours from Beacon Hills, which means they’re an hour and a half from Peter’s cabin. He calls it his cabin in the hope that it sounds quaint and charming, but Laura insists it makes him sound like the Unabomber, and Cora calls it “Uncle Peter’s little den of torture.” Peter prefers to think of it as his little den of intensive practical applied information gathering, but that just doesn’t roll off the tongue quite as easily. It’s less of a cabin and more of a bunker, to be honest, and it is filled with everything Peter needs to get Stiles the Spark to talk.

He grips the steering wheel tightly, fighting the urge to let his claws descend and ruin his new hand-sewn nappa leather steering wheel cover. He’s a werewolf, not a Philistine.

Thump thump thump.

Derek gives him the side eye. He’s still pissed about his phone, probably, and also probably about the fact that he’s become an accomplice in an abduction. And probably that whole using-him-as-bait thing back at the apartment building. Still, the boy could stand to lighten up a little. Nobody died.

Yet.

Peter turns the stereo up.

Thump thump thump.

Stiles is cuffed in iron shackles—wrists and ankles—in the trunk of the car. He is blindfolded and gagged. He is wrapped up like a burrito in a blanket made out of steel wool, which can’t be very comfortable, but contains enough iron to keep a moderate dampner on that magic of his.

And preventing him from using his magic is one thing, but maybe Peter should have slipped him a roofie too. Still, every mile brings them closer and closer to the cabin, and it’s not like the spark is going anywhere in the meantime. And how much damage can he really do, locked securely in the trunk?

Thump thump thump CRACK.

Fuck.

“What the hell?” Derek asks, twisting in his seat as though he’ll actually be able to see what’s going on in the trunk.

Peter resists the urge to roll his eyes.

He can only deal with one annoying fucking irritant at a time, and right now that irritant is Stiles.

It takes longer than Peter would like to reach the nearest exit on the highway, and longer than that to get the car to somewhere secluded enough to actually pull over and sort this little bastard out. When he parks behind the shelter of a copse of trees, he and Derek get out and inspect the damage. The tail light is hanging by the wires from the back of the car.

Peter really, really hopes that nobody saw the kid kick it out and then called the police with his license plate number.

He opens the trunk.

Stiles is a mess. He’s still half-wrapped up in the blanket, but he’s struggled enough that he’s opened up patches of abrasions all over his arms and his face. His skin is covered in sweat and smears of blood. His gag is still in, but his blindfold is askew. One eye, golden-bright and piercing as an owl’s in the late afternoon sun, stares up at Peter narrowly.

Peter smiles at him, and extends a clawed hand toward his face.

Stiles doesn’t even flinch.

“Damage my car again,” Peter says, keeping his voice low as a prayer, “and you’ll regret it. What’s that saying?” He drags a claw gently over the boy’s sharp cheekbone, not quite hard enough to draw blood. “An eye for an eye?”

Stiles holds his gaze, and there’s murder in it.

Peter slams the trunk shut again.

There’s no noise at all from the trunk for the rest of the drive.

***

It’s getting late by the time they reach the cabin. It’s almost winter, and the evenings are beginning to draw in earlier. There’s a chill in the air, but nothing a werewolf can’t handle. Peter and Derek haul Stiles out of the trunk of the car, and both get the benefit of that baleful one-eyed stare as they manhandle him toward the cabin. Stiles smells like electricity, and touching him, even bundled up as he is in his abrasive steel wool blanket, makes Peter’s skin prickle. Stiles is breathing heavily, and sweat has slicked his hair to his temples. His heart is thumping as fast as a rabbit’s.

Peter disarms the alarm system and unlocks the cabin door. He steps inside and turns on the lights. They’re halogen. Bright and unforgiving.

Stiles sucks in a breath as he sees what’s waiting for him.

The cabin is… well, it’s a clearly been build for one purpose, and not a nice one. It looks like the sort of place specifically designed to torture and dismember people with the minimum of fuss, and then possibly use their skin to make gloves out of. Not that Peter has ever done that. But if he wanted to, here would be the place. It’s more Hannibal Lector than Buffalo Bill. It’s clean, but that doesn’t mean it’s not ominous.

The main room is windowless. It has two very large stainless steel counters that run lengthways down the room. Underneath the counters are drawers and cabinets. There is a large gleaming sink on the far wall between them. The resemblance to a morgue isn’t entirely accidental. The room also has a polished cement floor that slopes gently toward a drain in the corner. So much easier for cleanup.

There’s a sturdy chair in the middle of the floor.

Peter and Derek manhandle Stiles onto the chair, and then Peter opens one of the many cabinets and pulls out a length of iron chain. Heavy as hell. Peter uncuffs Stiles’s ankles, and then wraps the chain around Stiles’s left ankle, winding it up his leg as far as his knee and pushing the blanket out of the way as he goes, and then winds the remainder around his right leg in a similar fashion. He secures it with a padlock.

Iron, of course.

Only then does he pull the blanket away from Stiles. Only then does he pull off the skewed blindfold, and tug the gag out of Stiles’s mouth.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” Stiles says, voice rasping. “Cosy.”

Peter smirks, and glances at Derek, who is lurking uneasily by the door. Then he fixes his attention on Stiles again. “Isn’t it?”

“Who the fuck are you?” Stiles asks, narrowing his eyes like he really thinks he’s in any position to be demanding answers. He’s certainly got balls. If Peter couldn’t hear the rapid thump of his heart or smell the way that adrenaline sours the edges of his scent, he’d almost think Stiles was unafraid.

But Stiles is way too clever to be truly unafraid.

His sharp gaze is taking everything in: Peter, Derek, the cabin. Peter can also see him trying to flex his legs to test the give in the chains. There is none. His cuffed hands are resting in his lap, and his long fingers are mapping the lock, as though he’ll find a weakness there. He won’t.

Peter only smirks, and flashes his eyes at Stiles.

“Werewolf,” Stiles murmurs. “Werewolves don’t use magic.”

“Well, I’m no spark but I know a trick or two.”

“As you clearly demonstrated at my apartment,” Stiles says. His voice is level, but Peter can tell he’s plotting sixteen different methods of murder behind those lovely eyes of his. “Iron filings and a binding curse, right?”

“Simple but effective,” Peter says.

“Huh.” Stiles seems strangely unimpressed for someone who hit the floor like a brick. “So, where’s your alpha?”

“I’m afraid it’s me that you’ll be dealing with, and not my alpha.”

Stiles leans forward in his chair. “No can do, V-neck. I’m an emissary. I only deal with your alpha.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Peter lies, keeping his tone honey-sweet. “Were you under the impression we’d be following protocol here today? The abduction didn’t clue you in at all?”

“Fair point.” He voice rasps and he clears his throat. For a moment he regards Peter narrowly, and then he turns to look at Derek. He widens his eyes. His bottom lip trembles slightly. And no. No, that will not do. Because Derek is exactly the sort of person who will fall for that vulnerable Bambi bullshit, and it’s taken Stiles the work of moment to pick him out as the weak link. Smart boy.

Peter moves a few paces to the right and blocks Stiles’s view of Derek. “Well then, let’s get down to business. Who are you working for, Stiles?”

Stiles holds his gaze. “That’s something I’m happy to discuss with your alpha.”

“Stubborn,” Peter says approvingly. “Funny thing about stubbornness. I’ve discovered it’s inversely proportionate to the number of fingernails a person still has.”

A corner of Stiles’s mouth twitches. “That is funny.” He wrinkles his nose. “I should probably tell you that I don’t do well with threats.”

“Is that so?”

“Mmm.” Stiles rolls his shoulders and blinks up at Peter. “I have ADD. All this back-and-forth posturing bullshit that you werewolves enjoy so much? I mean, I appreciate that you’re trying to create like a sense of impending doom here and stuff, but I have the attention span of a hummingbird on speed, so, honestly, while you’re building up to your big scary moment, I’m sorting through the six thousand tabs I’ve got open in my brain instead. You should probably just save yourself the effort and cut to the chase.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want, Stiles?”

The cuffs on Stiles’s wrists clink together as he shrugs. “I already told you, V-neck. I only talk to your alpha.”

Peter steps back for a moment, and regards the spark curiously. He’s an interesting one. A strange little puzzle indeed. He smells a little of fear, but there’s something else there as well. There’s a brightness in his eyes that Peter distrusts. What a shame that Stiles is so keen to skip the friendly little chat and get right to the torture: Peter is sure he’d make a bright conversationalist. If they’d met in different circumstances, Peter might not be able to resist the challenge in those eyes. Or resist the temptation to end the evening with Stiles’s long legs thrown over his shoulders as Peter fucked him hard enough that the boy saw several previously undreamt of dimensions when he came. And Peter could absolutely do that with his dick. It’s phenomenal.

What a shame that it’s never going to happen and that Stiles has already dug his own grave. Figuratively, at least. Peter will get Derek onto the actual digging later. But the moment Peter opened Stiles’s apartment door and smelled the unmistakable scent of another werewolf permeating the place he’d known that Stiles had lied to Talia, and that he had to die.

Stiles’s eyes widen when Peter opens one of the cabinets and begins to lay out a series of shiny implements: knives, pliers, thumbscrews. Clink clink clink against the countertop.

Stiles’s throat clicks as he swallows.

Derek growls, low and worried.

Peter selects the pliers first. He steps toward Stiles, and speaks softly. “We don’t have to do this, Stiles.”

Stiles bites his lower lip. “We don’t?”

“You could just tell me who you’re working for, and we can stop before we even start.”

“Right.” The word comes out on a breath, and for a moment Peter thinks that he’s going to fold. Then he meets Peter’s gaze again, and holds it. Fragile and courageous at the same time. Peter almost regrets what has to be done when Stiles shivers. “I… I can’t.”

His heartbeat is steady. He’s not lying.

What a shame.

Peter takes Stiles’s hands in his, and wrenches his arms out straight. The cuffs clink and rattle as he positions the pliers. “Last chance, sweetheart.”

“I…” Stiles’s expression shifts suddenly. Sharpens. Hardens. “I’m not going to let that happen, asshole.”

There’s a sudden burst of blinding white light, and Peter is thrown clear across the room and into the wall. The wall cracks, and so does his skull.

His last thought before he blacks out is that that spell with the iron filings wasn’t worth the money he paid for it.

***

Peter comes to in slow degrees, and finds that it’s his turn to be tied to the chair. With rope woven with wolfsbane, no less. Really, that might be his own fault for keeping it in the cabin. He blinks around the room and sees Derek standing in the corner, his arms folded over his chest and a frown on his face. There’s a circle of ash fencing him in. There’s one around Peter’s chair as well.

And Stiles the Spark is going through the cabinets, making interested humming noises whenever he finds something that catches his attention. “Is this Nordic blue monkshood?” A low whistle of approval. “Nice.” He rattles around for a moment longer. “Holy shit. You have the Petit Albert. I only have a PDF of this.”

Peter growls.

Stiles straightens up, cradling the grimoire gently. His eyes are bright and his smile is wide. “Wow. After my alpha rips your throats out, I’m definitely stealing this.”

No, today is not going to plan at all.

“Who’s your alpha?” he asks. Might as well know, right? Might as well know exactly which pack is planning to attack his, even if he no longer has the power to stop them. “Who are you working for?”

Stiles sets the grimoire down on the counter and picked up a knife. He turns it over and over in his hand, the blade glinting in the light.

“Oh, V-neck,” he says. “You and Eyebrows here are in a world of trouble now.” His smile grows, teeth gleaming. “I’m the emissary for one of the most powerful packs in the country.”

Peter regards him steadily, while he runs through a list of potential suspects in his mind. Deucalion? Satomi? Which one of them has betrayed Talia? He’s going to figure out a way to come back and haunt whoever the fuck it is.

Stiles leans towards him. “You just picked a fight with the Hale Pack, asshole.”

What?

Peter’s brain short circuits.

What?

From over in the corner, Derek says, “What the fuck?”

Peter couldn’t have said it better himself.

***

“Oh, my god.” When she sweeps into the cabin, Talia is not happy. “What the hell have you done, Peter? I told you to leave it alone!”

Peter tugs at the rope, ignoring the burn. “Don’t listen to a word he says, Talia! He’s lying! He stinks of another pack!”

“What?” Stiles flails, a flurry of limbs and plaid and indignation. “Fuck you! But also, okay, yes, my best bro in the entire world is a werewolf, but my emissary work is totally separate from that, and I fully disclosed it to Alpha Hale!”

Talia looks at Peter like she really, really wishes she’d been born an only child, and then takes a moment to fuss over the abrasions on Stiles’s face and arms courtesy of the steel wool blanket. “Oh, my god. You’re bleeding.”

And meanwhile Peter is still tied up in wolfbane-infused ropes, but apparently that’s no big thing.

Stiles wrinkles his nose and flushes under Talia’s attention, and looks for the world like a little kid. Peter half expects Talia to whip out a handkerchief, spit on it, and clean his face like a total mom. When fuck knows if anyone should be applying saliva to that face then it should be--

No.

It is not healthy to be sexually attracted to smartass little fuck weasels who manage to get the upper hand on Peter. But it’s so rare that anyone does. And Stiles has beautiful eyes. And lips that would looks amazing wrapped around Peter’s dick.

Peter totally wants to have hate sex with him.

Stiles smirks under Talia’s ministrations, and glances over at Peter like he knows exactly what he’s thinking.

Peter hates him.

Peter wants to hate him all night long, and in various positions.

“I’m fine, Alpha Hale,” Stiles says, like butter wouldn’t melt. “Totally okay. I was never in any real danger.”

And there’s the rub, right? The little asshole could have broken free at any moment. It was nothing but a game to him.

Except…

No, that’s not fair. He’d been doing exactly the same thing as Peter, hadn’t he? Trying to figure out who was attacking the Hale pack. Which, Peter hates to admit, is a level of loyalty he hadn’t expected from someone getting paid by the week. Suddenly that recommendation from Satomi doesn’t seem so strange.

“I mean, this is like an extreme level of exfoliation,” Stiles says, touching his abraded cheek carefully, “but it’ll be fine. I’ll tell people I face-planted on the beach or something. They’ll swallow it.” He flashes a disarming grin. “I have a history of being gravity’s bitch.”

Talia looks completely charmed.

“Excuse me,” Peter says, “but this rope actually burns.”

Talia gives him a look that says he totally deserves it, but then looks questioningly to Stiles instead. Stiles grins, and shrugs, and waves his hand, and Peter watches as the rings of mountain ash surrounding him and Derek curl away and tidy themselves into little piles, and the rope around him loosens and falls off.

Stiles winks at him, and wiggles his fingers.

Peter isn’t sure if Stiles is laughing at him, or threatening him.

It might actually be both.

***

Stiles spends the night at the Hales’ house, eating pizza and laughing loudly, and making Talia promise that she won’t tell his dad he’s in town because he’ll never forgive Stiles for not dropping by.

“Holy fuck,” Derek whispers, his head in his hands. “We kidnapped the sheriff’s son.”

“Let it go, Derek,” Peter says, tossing back a few fingers of whiskey. “That was hours ago.”

Stiles laughs, and grabs for the bottle. “You two are my favorite kidnappers ever.”

Peter hates him a little less than he did back at the cabin.

But only a little.

In the morning, Stiles checks the wards he installed remotely in the Preserve. Peter accompanies him.

“So, you’re the left hand,” Stiles says, stopping to pick up a twig and snap it.

“That’s right.”

Stiles cocks an eyebrow. “I presume you’re usually a lot better at it.”

“I am, actually.”

“Good.” Stiles’s smile fades and something dark flares in his eyes. “Because I really like your pack, Peter, and I really like your sister and I’m going to be the best emissary money can buy you guys, but fuck diplomacy. It only gets you so far. Sometimes the only way to protect your pack is to strike first, and strike hard.”

Peter feels a rush of warmth, and pleasure. “That’s always been my philosophy.”

“Then I think we’ll work very well together,” Stiles says.

“Until your contact expires.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “Guess you’d better use that left hand Machiavellian brain of yours to give your sister some reason to extend my contract.” His eyes dance. “Or give me some reason to stay.”

Peter steps forward and closes the space between them. “Oh, yes. And what might you suggest?”

Stiles’s breath smells like the maple syrup he drowned his pancakes in at breakfast. He turns his head so that his mouth almost brushes against Peter’s jaw line, and Peter feels a flare of heat rush through him. “Well, how about you take me home and fuck me so hard I can’t leave the bed, for starters, and we’ll see how it goes from there?”

***

After six weeks, Talia extends Stiles’s contract.

After six months, Stiles joins the Hale pack officially and closes down his e-Missary service.

Peter takes great pleasure in tearing up one of those obnoxious little business cards.

“Peter!” Stiles complains, yawning and stretching awake. The sunlight filtering through the curtains paints his pale mole-dotted skin golden, and the hickey on his throat a vivid shade of eggplant purple. “Stop going through my stuff.”

Peter climbs onto the bed and straddles him. He showers him in the confetti of the destroyed business card. “These are a crime against the English language, Stiles.”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“It’s why you love me,” Peter says.

“Yeah. Fuck you, but it totally is.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “Now didn’t you promise me that grimoire if I blew you this morning?”

Peter growls, and lets his fangs drop. “Ready whenever you are, sweetheart.”

When it comes to blowjobs, to making out, and to rapid exchanges of snark that inevitably lead to fucking in odd places—they’ve been banned from Whole Foods—it’s not a lie at all. But generally? Peter has never been ready for Stiles, not even a little bit.

There aren’t many people who can keep Peter Hale on his toes, and of course it took a smartass little spark with a dirty mind and a capacity for plotting revenge that easily matches Peter’s own to do it.

And of course Peter loves every minute of it.

He might be a borderline sociopath with an ego larger than the GDP of China, but hey, doesn’t he deserve nice things too?

Conventional morality says absolutely not, but fuck it.

Peter leans down and kisses his Stiles.

He’ll take them anyway.

You can also read this on AO3.

#steter #steter secret santa 2k17

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